


Varley Vs The Crown

by Commander_Freddy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, Character Development, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Espionage, F/F, Gen, M/M, Not Cindered Shadows Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 102,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Commander_Freddy/pseuds/Commander_Freddy
Summary: Count Varley has had it coming for a long, long time. With the end of the war, Bernadetta's own success in the eyes of the Empire, and, now, the death of her mother, Bernadetta is finally ready to face him.Or, at least, she's gotten sick enough of running from him.(Specific content warnings at the start of each chapter. I wasn't sure how to specify it in the tags, but just to be clear, the fic is rated E for sexual moments between the ships, and also deals with parental abuse, but there is no sexual abuse)
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley & Hubert von Vestra, Edelgard von Hresvelg/Bernadetta von Varley, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 162
Kudos: 538





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from how cases against the government are formatted in Commonwealth countries, though in this case the anger of the crown is a little more than metaphorical. I'm always open to constructive criticism, so let me know what you think!

Bernie didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Bernadetta…” Edelgard’s hand hovered somewhere near her arm. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“It’s okay,” said Bernadetta, and then immediately squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment. That was not the sort of thing one was supposed to say at their mother’s funeral. “We were never exactly close,” she added. “She wasn’t- wasn’t _cruel_ or anything, she just… we lived in different worlds, I think. I disagreed with her, a lot, really, and I mean, she never really approved of most things I did…”

Bernadetta picked at a loose thread on the hem of her cape. It was cold, freeing, really, down in the crypts of the palace of Enbarr, but that was to be expected, she figured. It would have been so much worse were it hot, the miasma of a thousand years of imperial elites forcing her to recognise that she was standing in a marble hall of corpses.

“It’s almost worse, when it is that way, I think,” Ferdinand said, sidling up to Bernadetta’s other side. He had no qualms about touching Bernie, setting his arm on her shoulder, but keeping his eyes on the sealed marble coffin on the dais before them. “When grief and mourning do not come naturally… It is difficult to know how to feel, what to do.”

Bernie nodded slightly.

“I guess I’m just… coming to terms with the fact that our relationship is never going to improve, now,” she said. The loose thread on her cape had become tangled and no longer yielded to her tugging. “I didn’t really know her at all, and now I never will.”

With the ears of someone always on the watch for threats, Bernie could hear the nigh-imperceptible sound of Hubert shifting his weight from one foot to the other, standing some metres apart from everyone else.

“I do regret not being able to share with you what experiments she was conducting that caused her death,” Hubert began, “but the Vestra Sorcery Engineers have always had a strict policy of the destruction of all research materials upon a death in the lab.”

“I understand,” whispered Bernadetta. “I wouldn’t want someone trying to reconstruct her notes and ending up dying, too.”

“I find myself disagreeing with the stringency of the policy, myself,” said Hubert. “Your mother was a truly capable researcher, and having to destroy her entire body of work represents an enormous loss-”

“I know,” said Bernadetta. She looked down at the beaked mage’s mask resting atop her mother’s tomb, staring into the glass-paned eyes that would never look back. “She was a genius.”

A silence settled in the crypt, as heavy and hard to swallow as the lump in Bernadetta’s throat. Hubert shifted his weight again. She wished he would just come up and join them at the foot of the dais, but he had been so awkward about this whole affair. Did he feel some sort of misplaced guilt, now that he was the patron of the Vestra Sorcery Engineers? Was it because of what had happened with his own parents?

Ferdinand’s hand flexed against her shoulder, and out the corner of her eyes, she could tell his jaw was far tenser than she had seen it off the battlefield. At her other side, Edelgard was as rigid as a board, staring straight ahead.

Goddess, what she wouldn’t give for some friends with normal relationships with their parents.

Bernie took a deep breath, let her head loll back against her shoulders, feeling her shoulders crack and a shuddering sigh escape her. Her eyes stung, but not enough to shed tears.

“What now?” she asked.

“A place has been prepared for your mother in the Engineers’ Vault, unless you wish her remains to be returned to Varley, or the lands of her birth-”

“No, no,” yelped Bernadetta, cutting Hubert off. “She can rest here. I think she’d come back to haunt me in a trice if I forced her to go back to my father instead of keeping her with her work.”

Her shoulders shuddered, and Ferdinand’s thumb began to rub circles against the muscle. She wished Edelgard would touch her, too. She felt lopsided. And as if the Emperor was about to burst any moment, though she couldn’t tell why.

“I actually meant,” Bernie continued, “What now for Varley?”

At last, Edelgard turned to look at her, mouth open in a pained expression that Bernadetta could not read for the life of her.

“When my mother placed my father under house-arrest, she took the reigns of the county,” she continued, though she couldn’t help but wonder if she had gotten everything wrong. “Not that she did much with it, not with the demands of the war on the sorcerers, but now that she’s gone, all that power goes to my father. That’s the law, right? Spouses inherit before children when there isn’t a will? I don’t know if she had a will, but if she did, it would have been-”

“-Burnt,” Hubert finished. “Along with everything else. Yes, you’re right, Bernadetta,” he said. “Varley County now belongs to your father.”

There was another beat of silence, tense for completely different reasons.

“We can’t just…” Ferdinand started.

“We _could_ just-” Hubert said at the exact same time.

Ferdinand’s hand disappeared from Bernadetta’s shoulder as he turned to share a glare with Hubert.

“None of that,” said Edelgard, her expression settling into her usual firm confidence. “I’m the Emperor, and I can appoint a new Countess Varley if I see fit.” She kept her eyes on Bernadetta all the while, and she couldn’t help but feel her breath die in her throat under such a gaze.

“The rule of _law_ , Edelgard!” blurted Ferdinand. “You cannot go around appointing and deposing regional administrators at will, all that will accomplish is setting up precedent for tyranny!”

“The people of Varley deserve better than a lengthy bureaucratic process just to remove a man who makes his own daughter flinch at mere mention of his name,” snapped Hubert.

Bernadetta looked down to her shoes.

“Thorough is not necessarily synonymous with _lengthy_ ,” retorted Ferdinand. “Not if you have a taskforce who knows what they’re doing.”

“We’re rebuilding from a continent-wide war, I think we have sufficient recourse to appoint an emergency leader and evaluate potential long-term candidates at a later date-”

“ _What_ later date?” snapped Ferdinand. “You appoint one person and they’ll hold onto power for as long as humanly possible, we’ve had one family of Prime Ministers for a _thousand_ years-”

“Are you implying _Bernadetta_ is going to start a civil war if we ask her to step down?”

“It’s about the _precedent-_ ”

“Enough.”

Both Hubert and Ferdinand fell silent, withdrawing from hunched and argumentative postures at Edelgard’s word.

“Hubert’s right in that the people of Varley have been kept waiting long enough,” Edelgard said. “And who knows what he’s been able to get away with, on the ground while his wife was in Enbarr.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “But Ferdinand is _also_ correct in that we can’t just swap out one arbitrarily appointed ruler for another. We need to show the people of Fódlan we’re more than just war-time leaders, and this could provide a useful opportunity to show that we’re serious about disrupting the assumed line of noble succession.”

Bernadetta turned, unsure of which of her three friends to look at. They each seemed to be contemplating something at length. Edelgard’s brow twitched as the stood silently, her eyes flickering back and forth as if she were reading something.

“We need to prove – in a court of law – that Count Varley is unfit to rule,” Edelgard said, her hands steepled beneath her chin. “We also need to prove who is the most eligible to take on the mantle of the Count. For the time being we assume it’s Bernadetta due to the combination of her education and personal experience living in Varley, but we cannot hold this to be an automatic fact.”

“Of course,” said Bernadetta quietly.

Edelgard’s gaze flickered from the floor to Bernie for a second, almost as if she had forgotten there were people present.

“In order to establish these facts, we are going to need to…” Her gaze flittered to Bernadetta again. “To-” Edelgard took a breath, annoyed at her inability to get it out. “Bernadetta, I am truly sorry, but I am going to ask-”

“Please don’t make me go home,” she said.

And there were the tears, at last. No grief for her mother, her blackened and twisted body encased in marble, but plenty of waterworks for poor, stupid Bernie, chucking a tantrum about going to the place where she _belonged_. She ached to rub at her eyes and pretend to be the strong person her friends acted like they thought she was, but she had locked up. Her hands wouldn’t move. Her legs trembled and she hated herself for it. Even her voice had withered away to some pathetic squeak.

“Please,” she said. She could not tell if her eyes were opened or closed. She had forgotten how to see in this fog of fear. “Please, not alone, I can’t… Not him…”

A finger, scarred and gnarled but as gentle as the breeze wiped at the corner of her eye, catching a tear.

Bernie jerked away with a scream.

“I-I’m so sorry,” said Edelgard, clutching her own hand as if she’d burnt it. “I shouldn’t have…”

Bernie stumbled back, towards Ferdinand, and his hand snapped up, ready to catch her.

“No, no, no, no!” Bernie cried, dodging out of the way of the hand, that horrible looming shadow at the very edge of her senses. Her boot smacked the dais as she started to fall, hands over her ears and wailing.

She couldn’t tell if she was on the floor or not. Something was itching at her, clawing at her, a constant palm hovered over her ready to strike and her wound tight body kept twitching, flinching away from nothing as she lost track of the stupid garbage she babbled.

“No, please, no!” she cried, pulling at her hair. “…Help… Please, help!”

Bright light. The floor falling away from her feet. Vertigo. Heat. And then, carpet. Her carpet, in her bedchamber on the third floor of the palace. In front of her stood the carved wooden legs of an armchair she’d rescued from Arundel’s old quarters, and beside it, knee high leather boots.

Hubert had warped her out.

The boots turned slightly, bent, and then her favourite armoured stuffy, a gift from Professor Byleth, was in her hands. She gripped tight to the bear, her nails digging into the gentle velvet, soothing the wild scrabbling animal bursting from her skin. The boots were gone. Why was he leaving? It was Bernie’s fault. It had to be. Her fault.

The awkward, shuddering scrape of her curtains closing sounded from behind her and cool darkness covered her. Finally, a great shuddering breath released from her and some of the tension started to eke out from her foetal-cowed body. Darkness. No one had to see her shame now. There were more noises and Bernadetta sobbed at the mighty weight of keeping track of every footstep in the room, even though there was only one set of boots. Her ears ached, and then tears of shame stung at her ears when the sound of water pouring from pitcher to glass filled the room. Why was he doing all this for her? She wasn’t even worth looking at, and yet-

“Make a noise if you want me to help you drink,” Hubert said. His voice was low, quiet. It sounded the way the darkness felt, a heavy blanket to keep her sequestered from the world.

She was quiet, shaking on the floor.

“I’m doing to put it on your side table, then,” he continued. “The one right just behind you.’

The sound of glass on wood.

“I want to… ensure nothing worsens,” he said. The awkwardness in his voice was like a knife at Bernadetta’s throat. How dare she do this to him? “That said, whether I stay or go is up to you. I have no desire to intrude. If you wish me to leave you in peace, make a noise. You can use your hands if your voice won’t work.”

Bernadetta’s hands clenched tighter around Dame Stuffy, and guilt immediately tugged at her even harsher. How she longed for Hubert to stay, to wrap her in his coat like a child and quietly walk her through how he and Ferdinand and Edelgard would take care of the situation with her father. She wanted him to stand guard, to make sure no one ever raised their hands against her again. She needed him to stay, urgently.

Stupid, selfish Bernie.

She let out a bark like a dog, and immediately came the rustling of a cape, as if Hubert were bowing to her, the mess on the floor.

“Take all the time you need,” he said, and then footsteps, and the sound of the door.

Bernadetta curled tighter in on herself, alone, finally, she should have been able to cry properly at last, instead of just whimpering. But instead she lay silent, unmoving. All the tears were gone, and in their place, thoughts began to rush in.

* * *

_My Dear Bernadetta,_

_Words will never be able to express the depths of my regret regarding my actions after your mother’s service this morning. Had I the power to turn back time, rest assured that I would not hesitate to take back every word I said, as well as that touch, unwanted and unwarranted. Despite your question regarding the future of Varley, it was neither the time nor the place to request something so incredibly difficult of you. Indeed, I do not have the right to ever request that of you. You need never see that man’s face again. Say the word and I will prevent you from even hearing him spoken of for the rest of your life. You have already given so much to the Empire, and I shall ask nothing more of you._

_For your actions during your war, and our operations in the aftermath, you are already a hero worthy of legend, and I had no right to speak to you, or – certainly – to touch you, in that manner._

_I do not have the right to ask for forgiveness, but nonetheless, please consider this card not only my askance for your mercy, but indeed my beg for it._

_I consider you a friend of the highest quality. Whatever it would take to restore your spirits, or your confidence in me, do not hesitate to ask._

_Ever your servant,_

_Emperor Edelgard_

Bernadetta returned the pearlescent card to where it had been delivered to her, on the tray beside the two-fish sauté that had been brought to her room by one of Edelgard’s own maids. Had she been younger, such a missive might have brought a luminous blush to her face at the thought of the indominable Edelgard being so self-effacing to her of all people. Now, however, it only made her sad.

“Um, excuse me,” she said to the maid, who had been stacking her trolley with some of the used crockery littered around Bernie’s room while she read. “Would you mind waiting while I write a reply to Her Majesty? And then, uh, delivering it?”

“Of course, my Lady Varley,” replied the maid with a curtsey.

Bernadetta cast about for something to write on, eventually settling for a scrap of pattern paper and a blunt pencil. That, at least, was enough to get her blushing, comparing Edelgard’s beautiful sharp script with her scrawl. Just like everything else about Edelgard, so strong and sturdy. You could rest the Empire on those letters alone. Whereas Bernadetta’s handwriting was… messy. Tangled in on itself. Just like-

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself.

The maid looked up, and Bernadetta quickly returned her eyes to the scrap of paper and began scribbling.

_Edelgard,_

_You never need apologise to me, much less beg for forgiveness. Would you maybe like to come to my rooms and share some of that fish you were so kind to send up for me? I feel as if I’ve been alone enough for one day._

_That is, only if you want to! Please don’t feel like you have to put aside important business or anything for me. You already have my forgiveness, if only because I don’t think you need it._

_Ever your friend,_

_(And servant!)_

_Bernie_

With the note handed to the maid with the embarrassingly large pile of dirty dishes, Bernadetta looked down at her dinner. It didn’t feel right to start with Edelgard.on her way. But… she didn’t actually know if Edelgard _was_ coming. But she didn’t want to be halfway through a mouthful of fish sauté when the _Emperor_ walked in, even if the Emperor was her friend, who wrote her effuse letters begging forgiveness for the grave crime of touching her.

Bernie’s heart thumped.

The feel of Edelgard’s finger against her cheek was still as potent as if she’d touched her only a second ago. She could feel those callouses of constant axe training, that unevenly knobbled knuckle from when Edelgard’s finger had been sliced off in the midst of battle and Linhardt had to reattach it on the scene.

Bernie wondered what other scars she had, what other parts of her were that rough, if there was anywhere smooth, warm, where the Emperor ended and Edelgard began-

There was a gentle tap at the door and Bernadetta startled, feeling cold sweat run down from her scalp and across her back.

“Ah, haha, come in!” she called with a nervous titter.

The door pushed open slower than Bernadetta had expected, and for a moment, all she could see was Edelgard’s pale, nervous face peering in. She relaxed upon seeing Bernadetta sitting at her coffee table instead of huddled on the floor, but there was a still a beat of silence as they made eye contact, neither of them sure what to say.

“You got my note,” Edelgard said eventually, still standing in the doorway.

Bernadetta blinked. “And, uh, and the fish!”

There was another moment of silence. Bernadetta felt the slow crawl of a familiar chill sliding down her back. She was ruining this, just as she ruined everything else. Her note had been the most embarrassing thing ever penned and had done nothing to alleviate Edelgard’s concern. Yet again, Bernie had-

She screwed her eyes shut. She had to stop thinking like this.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” she said, and forced a smile.

“Of course!” replied Edelgard, stepping through the threshold and pushing the door shut behind her. “I truly am sorry that-”

“It’s okay,” said Bernie. “Come… sit down! Have some of this fish!”

Edelgard hovered for a moment, eyes unmoving but still somehow hesitant. Bernadetta felt her shoulders clench as the seconds ticked by, her Emperor still standing behind the chaise lounge instead of sitting in it.

“I…” Edelgard started.

Bernadetta returned her eyes to the coffee table. The steam from the two-fish sauté had disappeared.

The old wood of the chaise lounge creaked as Edelgard finally sat down.

“I know you said you forgive me-”

Bernie threaded her fingers through the lace along the edge of her dressing-gown.

“-But I would still like to apologise to you in person,’ finished Edelgard.

“You really don’t have to,” said Bernadetta.

Edelgard was quiet, and Bernadetta had the sudden feeling that she was staring down at the table, too.

“I know,” said Edelgard. “But it would make me feel better.”

Bernadetta’s heart seized, and she was overcome with the need to throw herself at Edelgard’s feet like the heroine of a truly terrible book. To say something like “Oh, Edie!” – as if she could ever call the Emperor by a nickname – and lament the brief awkwardness that had been between them. But Bernadetta was no heroine, poorly written or otherwise, so she merely made a little noise that sounded more like an exhale than an exclamation.

Edelgard looked up, and Bernadetta could not help but give into that imperial gaze and meet her eyes.

“I am _sorry_ , Bernadetta,” Edelgard said, and Bernie could not handle the genuine anguish in her eyes, that look as if Edelgard was truly tormented by what she had done. Sparked a meltdown that was bound to happen anyway.

“If it wasn’t what you said, it would have been something else,” said Bernadetta. “I… get like that all the time.”

“I know,” said Edelgard, and somehow that hurt worse than everything else. “Which is why it was so wrong of me to ask that of you. I don’t want you to ever-”

“-But I will!” Bernie cried, twisting her fingers within the lace of her robe. “No matter what you say or do, I am always going to be like this! I… I thought about it, while I was holed up in here all evening.”

Edelgard leaned forward.

“Bernadetta…” Her hand twitched, as if she was about to reach out, but then clenched in the crimson of her dress. “You… We can help you with this. I would like to help you with this. I don’t want to see you suffer like that.”

“I know,” said Bernadetta.

And though she wanted to look back down at the fish and away from the genuine pain in Edelgard’s eyes, Bernie had forgotten how to move. Not in the way she did when she broke down, however. It was more that all of her energy was focused on other things.

“I want to get better, too,” she continued. “And I think… I can’t get better if I keep living in the past. If, in my mind, when I think of my father, I’m always fifteen and afraid. So I’m going to do it.”

Edelgard blinked.

‘…Do what?” she asked.

“I’m going back to Varley, I’m going to prove my father an incapable leader and I’m going to see him removed from his title.”

This time, when Edelgard lurched, she stumbled all the way to her feet.

“Bernadetta!”

Bernie blanched, leaned back, hunched into her seat, but still kept her eyes on Edelgard.

“You don’t need to do that!” said Edelgard. “The last thing I wanted was for you to feel like this was your responsibility. Just because he was your father – _especially_ because he was your father – that doesn’t mean this is your job. And I don’t want you to feel that you have to personally remove him from his seat for you to stand up to him. Just by being the wonderful person you’ve grown to become is enough to show that-”

“I want to see him again,” Bernadetta said. “I want to see him as an adult. Because in my mind… he’s always bigger than me, stronger. Standing over me. But I can stand up to him now. I think. I mean, I know I can. If I… I mean, I’ve killed people! I fought in a war!”

“And you’ve done more than enough for the Empire in doing so,” said Edelgard. “I can never ask you for anything else. Especially this.”

“But I want this,” said Bernadetta. “At least, I think I might. But I doubt myself this much about everything, so this is as sure as I’m going to get.”

Edelgard looked at her, her brow as furrowed as Bernadetta had ever seen it. But, then again, Edelgard’s brow was so often furrowed.

“Don’t look like at me like that,” said Bernie.

“I just worry about you,” said Edelgard, her voice near silent. “If you do this… it’ll be difficult.”

“I know,” said Bernadetta. “I can nearly guarantee I’ll… break down like that, while I’m there. But, I can definitely guarantee that if I don’t do this, then I’ll always… okay well maybe I might eventually get better, but I’ll have to live forever knowing I didn’t stand up to him.”

“You don’t need to prove yourself like this,” said Edelgard. “There are so many different ways of being strong.”

She was still standing, her hands clenched into fists. It looked a little intimidating, but Bernie knew her Emperor well. She was off balance, afraid. Afraid for Bernie.

“I’ll be okay,” Bernadetta said, a sharp nod of her head. “I meant to tell you, I have a request for this mission.”

“Mission?” Edelgard’s face seemed to crumple. “This isn’t an order or anything, in fact, I have half a mind to order you _not_ to go.”

“I want to take Hubert with me,” said Bernadetta, trying to swallow hard enough to get past Edelgard’s dismissal.

Edelgard blinked.

“Hubert?” she asked.

“…Yeah,” said Bernadetta. “You know him. Really tall, bad haircut?”

Despite everything, Edelgard’s mouth twisted into a little smile and Bernadetta found herself beaming, rising to her feet to join Edelgard.

“If Hubert comes with me… I don’t think I’ll be so afraid,” Bernadetta continued. “It’s not because of what he said, back at the service. Or… um, his father. It’s just,” Bernadetta thumped her tight fists against her sides as she looked for words she didn’t quite understand. “Hubert’s the only person I was ever as scared of as I was my father. And now we’re friends.”

Edelgard stared at her, that eternally scrutinous gaze not one of surprise, but rather a search for something. Bernadetta longed to lift her chin and meet that gaze, to stand strong and ready as the Emperor’s representative to Varley, but she didn’t know how to do that. Not yet, with the noose of her father still hanging around her neck. All she could do was screw her eyes shut, and hope.

“The second anything goes wrong, the second you feel anything except absolutely safe, you come right back here,” Edelgard said.

Berndatta’s eyes snapped open.

“I will not have you getting hurt.”

“But I can go?”

Edelgard screwed her eyes shut and swallowed, as if she was steeling herself to do something terrible.

“If Hubert goes with you,” she said. “And you promise to listen to him if he says you need to get out of there.”

“Yes,” said Bernadetta immediately. “Yes, of course, if there is anyone who understands matters of, uh, security, it’s Hubert.”

Edelgard looked at her, those worried eyes boring deep into her.

“Bernadetta,” she began.

“You got to do it!” Bernadetta snapped, brows and hands knotting together as she squeezed her eyes shut.

There was a moment’s silence.

“What?” Edelgard asked, and she sounded more curious than affronted, thank the Goddess.

“You got to… Your uncle.” Bernie shook her head. “I’m sorry. That was… inappropriate. You know I’m not exactly the pinnacle of nobility. I can’t help but feel… jealous, I suppose, of the fact that you could stand up to him. I don’t think I could kill my father. But I need to do _something_.”

Edelgard swallowed.

“I understand,” she said at last. “I want you to have that control, but I also want you to be safe.”

Bernadetta had to look away at that.

“But I cannot pretend that you’re the same shy little thing I had to drag kicking and screaming to class.”

There was a smile in Edelgard’s voice that gripped Bernadetta’s heart tight, pulling it to pieces in an instant.

“Well, I wouldn’t have come this far if it weren’t for you,” Bernadetta replied. “And now I… I want to go even further.”

Edelgard took a deep breath and Bernie chanced a quick look at her. She looked even paler than usual. Tired, too. She never looked like this when making tactical decisions. Always with that cold, smooth expression of a commander wiling to do what it takes and recover from losses she couldn’t avoid. She only looked like this when visiting the graveyard.

“I’ll talk to Hubert,” she said at last.

“Edelgard,” and Bernie stumbled forward, nearly tripping on the table, but making her way around it to stand before Edelgard eventually. She longed to grab her hands, to squeeze them tight and reassure her that everything would be okay. But she wasn’t about to touch the _Emperor_. Not even when she looked up at her with those red-rimmed eyes that begged to be wiped free of tears. They’d already had one disaster from that gesture today.

“I am… _proud_ of you Bernadetta.”

Bernie felt her face both crumple and illuminate at once, and she had to look away yet again, no matter how much she longed to bask in the tenderness of her Emperor’s gaze.

“Tell me that again when I actually succeed,” she said with a little titter.

“And I’ll tell you every day until then,” Edelgard replied immediately.

Bernie damn near stumbled. She could not deal with that level of earnestness from her Emperor, that voice and those eyes, all for silly little Bernie Bear going back to Varley.

Edelgard seemed to pick up on how that had thrown her off her balance, and her darted back to the low table at their knees.

“You just enjoy your dinner,” she said after a moment, and forced one of her more proper leader smiles, the one she wore while inspecting her troops and giving speeches. “I’ll let you know what Hubert says.”

Bernie wanted to say something, reach out and grasp those crimson gloves and tell her how grateful she was. But after a blink Edelgard was gone, and Bernadetta was alone in her room once again.

She looked down at the fish. She was hungry, she hadn’t eaten even a bite. But sitting down to a meal felt wrong now somehow. She turned her eyes instead to the walk-in closet that separated her main room from her bath chamber. It was full of gorgeous dresses Dorothea had helped her pick out, embroidered by herself under the table during boring war meetings and, later, even more boring cabinet meetings. But closest to the door, dangling half-off the hanger, was her favourite pair of jodhpurs, still a little grotty from her last ride out with Ferdinand. And resting on the shelf above them, she knew, would be the big trunk she carried from Varley to Garreg Mach, all those years ago.

Bernadetta sighed and stomped toward the closet.

The fish was probably cold by now, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had some questions about the rating, so I just wanted to say here that there's going to be sexual content in later chapters, but only with the tagged pairings. But regarding the paternal abuse themes, Bernie will be interacting with her dad in this fic so there will be depicted verbal, psychological and physical abuse in later chapters. I'll be doing content warnings for each chapter from now on.
> 
> This specific chapter is rated **M:** _Sexual references, suggestive content, and allusions to verbal abuse_

Ferdinand’s hands came up behind Hubert’s shoulders and brushed down to his chest where they started to dance at his shirt buttons.

“Darling, you have been staring at that one map for two hours,” Ferdinand said, leaning down to rest his head on Hubert’s shoulders, while the Minister of the Imperial Household continued to sit unmoving at his desk. “May I be of any assistance?”

One of Hubert’s finger’s twitched where it held the vellum, and he felt one of Ferdinand’s eyebrows arch against his cheek.

“My, you _are_ vexed,” said the voice at his ear. “What is that, the former Alliance border?” And then Ferdinand seemed to grasp what was going on, and his voice dropped a little quieter. “Are you worried about Varley?”

“Not as worried as I am about the proposed solution,” Hubert muttered.

One of Ferdinand’s hands moved from his chest to cover Hubert’s right hand, his thumb rubbing circles against the glove.

“My plan?” asked Ferdinand. “I-”

“No,” said Hubert, and he dropped the map with a sigh. “Edelgard’s plan. Actually, it isn’t just hers.”

Ferdinand shifted, turning his head to try and look at Hubert’s face. It wouldn’t work and they both knew it, but maybe, Hubert thought, he should try and show a little something. If there was anyone he could talk through his thoughts with, it was the ridiculous creature draped over him.

He pushed his chair back, swivelled it sideways and Ferdinand, who always knew him too well for Hubert’s comfort, immediately came to sit in his lap, wrapping arms around his neck.

“Tell me of this mystery plan that has you in such a state,” said the Prime Minister, brushing his hands over Hubert’s cheek.

“I’ll be going to Varley, to assist in the investigation in proving the Count unqualified for the seat.”

“I see,” said Ferdinand. “…That makes you nervous?”

“No,” said Hubert. “No, I can hold myself together in a formal setting with that creature they call Count. I’m worried about Bernadetta.”

“Oh, I know,” said Ferdinand, leaning his head into the crook of Hubert’s neck. “The poor darling. I remember how horrible I felt when my father was arrested. I know she and I had different relationships with our families and fathers, but she already has so many problems, this is the last thing she needs on top of it all.”

“She’s coming with me.”

Ferdinand didn’t move.

“Pardon?”

“Bernadetta is going to Varley with me,” Hubert said, and looked down at Ferdinand, at last letting him see the worry lines that have been marring his face all evening. “She is going to be a part of the investigation.”

“What?” Ferdinand gasped. “We can’t make her do that-”

“As _I_ said!” snapped Hubert. “But Edelgard said it was _her_ idea! Bernadetta’s!”

Ferdinand stared at him in confusion.

“I even went to visit her, to make sure it really was what she wanted,” said Hubert. “She was already packing.”

“Goddess…” said Ferdinand.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

“I can’t make any promises not to kill that man if he-”

“I know,” said Ferdinand. “We shall set a precedent for self-defence by proxy if we must.”

Hubert looked down at him in surprise. Ferdinand scowled back.

“If we can prove that he intended to harm her, then I think that should be more than enough to prove that he’s unsuitable to office, too.”

Hubert smiled.

“Indeed.”

“Just…” Ferdinand sighed. “Take care of her,” he said. “If she truly intends to go through with this.”

“I will,” said Hubert, closing his eyes. “I find myself unable to think of anything else.”

“Even of how much you shall miss me?”

Hubert’s eyes snapped back open, and he looked down at the man in his lap and his arms with a snort.

“I needn’t think of that, my dear, it comes more naturally than breathing,” drawled Hubert in that voice he used when mocking nobility behind their backs.

“Nice save,” said Ferdinand, swatting his chest.

For a moment they just sat in each other’s arms, gazes locked.

“When will you be leaving?” Ferdinand asked, more subdued than he had been all evening.

“From how anxiously Bernadetta is preparing, it seems we’ll be off tomorrow morning,” Hubert replied.

Ferdinand shifted in his lap, but Hubert was still thinking.

“I’m not surprised,” he continued. “If I were in her place-” Hubert paused, unable to keep himself of thinking about when he _had_ been in her place “-I would want it all to be over as soon as possible.”

“If you are leaving tomorrow,” said Ferdinand, drawing himself tighter against Hubert’s chest, “That would mean we have but one night left together.”

Hubert stared down at him, eyes a hard line.

“You are insatiable, you know that?”

“Well!” Ferdinand cried, and made to hop off Hubert’s lap, but was stopped by his partner’s hand coming to hold tight to his outer thigh.

“Never said that was a bad thing,” murmured Hubert into his hair, but Ferdinand still sighed, nonetheless.

“This will be the first time we have been apart for any significant amount of time since…” Ferdinand shook his head. “I am not sure. In over a year, I believe.”

Hubert was quiet, his hand running up and down Ferdinand’s thigh, not his usual teasing, but instead a gentle, thoughtful dance, as if he were trying to feel patterns inscribed in the fabric of Ferdinand’s leggings.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Hubert. 

Ferdinand rested his head against Hubert’s breast, feeling it rise and fall against his cheek.

“Will you write to me?” Ferdinand asked.

“But of course,” murmured Hubert into his hair, and then planted a kiss at his temple. “And I near demand that you write to me in reply.”

Ferdinand laughed, folding one leg over the other, the movement drawing Hubert’s hand down to sit on the curve of Ferdinand’s ass. Despite what some might think, Hubert could take a hint sometimes, at least when it came to Ferdinand, and the Prime Minister let out a beautiful purring sigh as Hubert rolled his palm around over the bulge in his trousers.

“Darling…” Ferdinand smiled, nuzzling into the line of Hubert’s jaw.

Hubert nudged Ferdinand’s face with his own nose, drawing it up until their mouths were level and together in a gentle, open kiss. Ferdinand twitched against his hand as Hubert dragged his tongue along the roof of his partner’s mouth, and suddenly a strange bolt of melancholy filled him.

“I don’t know when I will be back,” Hubert found himself saying, more concerned than he had anticipated.

Ferdinand stroked down Hubert’s cheekbones, staring in his eyes for a moment before grinding down hard into his hand again. 

“I suppose you shall just have to give me a farewell to truly remember, then,” Ferdinand whispered.

Hubert’s breath stuttered as Ferdinand bit into his neck, now thrusting eagerly into his hand.

“You know,” Hubert muttered, once he found his voice again, and got a good grip on Ferdinand’s ass with his other hand, “Varley is only three day’s ride away. You could always come up-” The two groaned in unison as Hubert finally got his hands into Ferdinand’s trousers. “-Come visit me. If you miss me too much.”

Ferdinand snorted, even as he gripped at Hubert’s shoulders tight enough to draw blood.

“Nice idea,” he said through a gasp. “But I am afraid I have something of an image to retain as the Prime Minister of- _fuck_!”

Hubert laughed and gave another pinch to Ferdinand’s ass.

“And such a noble image it is,” he said with a grin.

“So smug,” muttered Ferdinand. “Come now, you might need to ride a horse tomorrow, but I certainly don’t, so get onto bed. I meant what I said about that farewell.”

* * *

Bernadetta forced herself not to look around her room as she pulled her trunk to the door. It was quiet, in the still, lavender light of the early dawn, and it looked much too close to her old room at Varley. She’d be locked up in there again, soon enough. No use dwelling on it now. A footman running up the stairs turned to help her as her trunk tripped on the lip of a rug, but Bernie shook her head and hoisted into her arms, stomping down the stairs. All those archery drills had been good for more than just her discipline.

It was strange seeing the palace so quiet while still in daylight – except for the one harried footman, Bernadetta saw no one until she pushed her way out the south wing doors and tumbled into the stables, where everyone she had ever met seemed to be running around. Edelgard was piling a mule-pulled cart with such a strange assortment of luggage, from footstools to a rack of tomahawks.

“Edelgard,” Bernadetta said, startling her Emperor into nearly dropping what seemed like a tea-chest, but could have held anything.

“Good morning, Bernadetta,” said Edelgard, shifting the chest so that it rested on her left shoulder.

“W-what’s all this?” asked Bernie.

“I can’t very well send you off without, well, you know,” said Edelgard, looking around nervously. “Some of the comforts of the palace.”

The two locked eyes for a moment.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” asked Edelgard, looking at the dirt.

“I mean, it’s very sweet!” said Bernadetta. “I just, uh, worry that maybe it’ll be a little… um, off-putting to my father. Or something. Like maybe… implying that Varley Manor isn’t up to scratch? I mean, that’s not what _I_ think you’re saying, I just worry-”

“You’re right, you’re right,” said Edelgard, shaking her head. “I’ll…” She looked up at the pile of furniture behind her. “Goddess. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just… worry about you.”

Bernadetta tugged at the straps of her trunk, suddenly unable to speak.

“So you, uh, you thought an armoire would help?” Bernie smiled after a breath.

“It does have coats in it,” Edelgard said, a smile of her own twisting across her face.

“Well… So does this!” Bernie announced, hefting her trunk in her arms.

Edelgard shook her head, still smiling.

“I suppose I just don’t know how to let you go without doing something to protect you.”

Bernadetta clutched her trunk closer to her chest, and though she felt the desperation to look away, cast her eyes to the ground, there was something thrilling about meeting Edelgard’s eyes. Something inside her was sparking to light, warming her from the inside out as Edelgard’s mouth danced closed to a laugh and Bernadetta felt something similar bubbling within herself.

“Good morning all!”

Bernadetta jumped and Edelgard seemed to startle herself into a firmer posture, the both of them turning to see Ferdinand and Hubert approaching, both weighed down with bags.

“Oh, Ferdinand!” cried Bernadetta. “Don’t tell me you’re coming, too!”

“Why, my dear Bernie, would that be such a shame?” asked Ferdinand. “But I am afraid I am indeed saying farewell to you here.”

He gave one of his deep bows, and both Hubert and Edelgard brought a hand to their brows in unison.

“That’s my bag he’s carrying,” said Hubert.

“My, and you thought I over-packed,” said Edelgard to Bernadetta, the both of them staring at Hubert’s saddlebags. They were inconspicuous to a deeply suspicious extent. They looked as if they could be full of anything, which meant there was likely room for a body and all the tools needed to dismember it in there.

“At least Hubert took his clothes out of the dresser before bringing them down,” muttered Bernadetta in reply and Edelgard knocked her with an elbow in reply.

Her Empress was strong, stronger than perhaps she realised, and Bernadetta knew she would feel what had really just been a gentle tap for hours to come. The thought was… Exhilarating.

“I must be sure I am able to protect you, Bernadetta,” said Hubert, moving to take the bag from Ferdinand, who instead jerked it away from him.

“Hubert…” said Bernie.

“You have my word, I shan’t do anything to put you or our diplomatic situation in danger,” Hubert replied.

Bernadetta didn’t know where to look, but Ferdinand and Edelgard shared a quick glance.

“Unless she is in immediate physical danger and unable to defend herself,” Edelgard said to Hubert, “I ask you to defer to Bernadetta’s judgement when it comes to… physical solutions.”

“Of course,” said Hubert, even as Bernadetta felt a chill run up her spine.

Was that really a power she should have?

Thankfully, she didn’t have the chance to follow that thought to the labyrinth it no doubt led to, as a horse in one of the stalls whinnied at the top of its lungs.

“Oh, Goddess, the horses have spotted you,” Hubert muttered as Ferdinand immediately let some kind of cooing noise and made his way over to the stables.

Despite Hubert’s massive murder kit still in his arms, Ferdinand managed to procure a small carrot from somewhere on his person to offer to the pregnant mare kicking up a storm at the sight of him.

“Well,” Hubert said, much louder than necessary. “I suppose we shall be on our way now.”

He looked over at Ferdinand, and his brow slipped into a frown when he saw that Ferdinand was still ooh-ing and ah-ing over his horse. Edelgard rolled her eyes.

“Are your horses even ready yet?” she asked.

Hubert thought for a second.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t know which ones we’re taking.”

And despite the destination they were headed toward, despite having to say farewell to Edelgard and Ferdinand and everyone else in Enbarr, and despite how damned early it was, Bernadetta had to smile.

* * *

Hubert kept his eyes on the reins, where his hands gripped them tighter than they should. The embroidered leather felt strange in his hands after so long riding with just the simple tack he had outfitted his horse with during the war, but on such a mission as this, Hubert felt it was important to make a display of strength. And though he didn’t personally assign much meaning to the adornments of one’s riding gear, from the way Bernadetta kept polishing her boots every time they stopped, it seemed that Count Varley did. But it wasn’t only the new reins that had his hands feeling awkward. The Imperial Signet Ring sat on his left hand’s smallest finger, the beautiful shine of its ancient gold looking absolutely obscene alongside Hubert’s usual riding getup. Dressing inconspicuously and drab was more than just a preference for him, it was the only way he could effectively serve as Lady Edelgard’s shadow. But now she had given him a new task, one that had drawn him into the light and branded him with a very different kind of prestige.

It still felt like a kind of blasphemy to wear her ring, a profanity against the only structure he had ever believed in. But things were changing now, in a thousand different ways. He couldn’t stop Edelgard from discussing her plans for the future, plans which included selecting a peacetime successor to the throne and then… fading into obscurity. He couldn’t say he didn’t see the appeal in fading from the public eye, in accepting that they had sacrificed more than most people could while remaining sane and setting out to find what they had left behind, but all the same…

He didn’t quite know how to handle it.

“We should be there before sunset!”

Hubert turned in his saddle to see Bernadetta riding up behind him, calling out over the wind that buffeted them.

“How can you tell?” asked Hubert, looking around.

The steppe that surrounded them looked much the same as the mossy fields of rock they had been riding through all day, after finally entering the barren outlands of Varley territory.

“The weather,” called Bernadetta, finally coming level with him. “The manor sits between the Merceus and Oghma Mountain Ranges. There’s always wind blowing down off one of the ranges, and it’s only been getting stronger.”

“My, my,” said Hubert. “Sounds quite gloomy.”

“I like it,” said Bernadetta, and there was a brief moment of silence in between gusts. “Somehow… hearing the wind outside my window when I was a kid… It made me feel less alone.”

Hubert was quiet, the two of them looking ahead over the rolling crags of rock before them to see absolutely nothing through the fog and drizzle that always seemed to cover Varley.

“I-” he started, but the wind seemed to know that he had no idea what to say and struck them with a blast of cold air, sending their hoods and hair flying into their eyes.

“Shall we up the pace?” he yelled instead, head turned over his shoulder to address the three staffers they had brought with them. Ostensibly a groom, a lady’s maid and a footman, both he and Bernadetta knew Hubert’s staff were trained in far more than just helping nobles onto horses. Despite the rigour of their abilities, however, they all looked thoroughly miserable in the cold and wet, each of them nodding immediately at Hubert’s suggestion.

“We can probably make it in under three hours if we really push the horses,” said Bernadetta, also looking back at their sodden entourage. Their pack mule duo seemed to be just as forlorn as the staff, but at least they had been relieved of the burden of Edelgard’s luggage cart.

“Very well then,” said Hubert, adjusting his seat in the saddle. “We’ll be out of the cold soon enough.”

“And into the fire,” muttered Bernie.

Her words stuck with him as they pressed through the wind-whipped fog – a weather Hubert could not comprehend until he remembered the steppe was still two kilometres above sea level, and that they were within not a fog, but a low-hanging cloud. Hubert had barely interacted with Count Varley. As a child, his father had been the one to deal with the other sitting nobles of the Empire, leaving Hubert to be chased around by their overly eager offspring. And after Hubert had… taken care of his traitorous sire, it was the late Countess Varley with whom he had dealt, although she had hardly been one for social engagements. And so, riding through the mist of the Varley foothills, Hubert found himself unable to envision either the Manor or the Count’s face in his mind.

He knew the man was an insect. That much was obvious. Girls with Bernadetta’s constitution did not sprout unprompted from the earth. But beyond that… beyond the vaguest sense of disgust that filled him at the thought of the man’s name, Hubert had no idea what he was like. He didn’t know whether to expect an over the top and insincerely warm welcome, or if the sight of Bernadetta would have him slam the door in his face.

Goddess, he wished Ferdinand was here. He’d know what to do. Edelgard had sent a letter ahead to the Count, letting him know of their visit, but that was small comfort when Hubert was to be the one who would have to live under the man’s roof for Goddess knew how long. He twisted the signet ring around his finger again as once more thoughts of his farewell filled his mind. Ferdinand had been… clingy. But at the same time almost reverent, as if he couldn’t believe Hubert would drop everything to go riding across the Empire for Bernadetta. Sure, he had never done anything like that before, but Bernadetta had never asked before. Besides, despite his many declarations of how he would miss Hubert, Ferdinand seemed rather chuffed to see his partner befitted with the royal seal and sent off as the official Imperial Envoy to a sitting noble. Certainly, he’d lavished a lot of affection on Hubert’s hands, where the signet ring rested, took those fingers and that ring into his mouth, begging to have them elsewhere, just for a moment in a dark corner of the stables, there was still a few moments they could share together before Hubert had to leave-

“There.”

Hubert jolted in the saddle as Bernadetta’s voice cut through the wind. Though her arms remained crossed over her chest in defence against the wind, a single finger pointed out ahead. Hubert looked up from where he’d curled in against the wind, and saw that she spoke true. Through the mist, shapes had appeared on the horizon. Close by he spotted a couple water-pumping windmills and a few small squares which had to be civilian houses. But they couldn’t be farmhouses, could they? Certainly not here in the middle of this barren steppe. But Hubert didn’t have long to consider that before his eyes realised what he was looking at. The horizon was different now, and at first he had just thought it was higher somehow, as if perhaps they were at the bottom of a hill or something, but no. Those were the mountains beyond the sky, the very mountains that housed Garreg Mach. And at their foot, between the Oghma Mountains and his own eyes, lay the long, low shape of Varley Manor.

Count Varley did not meet them at the door, the way Hubert had feared. And yet, his absence was just as terrifying. The Varley staff met their own entourage, Hubert’s groom instantly settling in to work beside the Varley stable team, while Bernadetta endured greetings so awkward, Hubert had to assume it was the first time she had met these particular footmen. Considering the difficulty he’d had in establishing contact with the existing Varley servants, perhaps the Count replaced his servants more often than was prudent. The thought sent yet more goosebumps across Hubert’s soldiers.

“His Lordship is in his study off the library, my lady,” one of the footmen was saying to Bernadetta as they made their way into the entrance hall.

Varley Manor was the same inside as it was out: an edifice of plain white marble decorated with only simple columns and cornices. The entrance hall had nothing more than dark wood cabinets and tables and bookcases dotted about, only one of them featuring any decoration, in the form of a sculpted silver branch, bare of leaves but covered in metal blossoms.

It seemed a cold place to grow up in, even to someone who had once called House Vestra home.

“You’ll be staying in the late Countess’s rooms, if that pleases you, Count Vestra,” one of the footmen was saying.

“Simply Minister Vestra is fine,” said Hubert, all of his attention fixed on Bernadetta’s conversation instead.

“Do you think I should go up to see him?” Bernie asked her footman as the four of them headed to the sweeping, shallow staircase at the end of the hall.

“That’s your call, my lady. You are his daughter.”

Hubert watched Bernadetta hug herself tighter, despite the temperature climbing as they ascended.

“Well… What mood is he in?”

“I…” the footman started, and then lowered his head. “I am afraid I am not too skilled in judging the Count’s disposition. I have only been in his service for the past moon.”

Bernadetta nodded, sympathetic but not surprised.

“Do you know who you replaced?” she asked.

“The others tell me I was hired after the departure of a man named Hartmann.”

Bernadetta’s eyes darted toward Hubert, and the heavy weight sitting within Hubert grew sharper, stronger, at the sight of so much emotion at once.

“I’m afraid I never had the opportunity to meet him,” said Bernadetta.

“There are many people who have been and gone since you were last here, Lady Bernadetta,” Hubert’s footman offered. “I wager my entire family has entered the service by now.”

“I hope they’re doing well,” said Berndetta, and abruptly came to a stop.

A small spiral staircase wound through the wall beside her, and it captured Bernadetta’s gaze in an instant. It was dark, cramped, and Hubert wondered if her trunk would even fit up it. But when Bernadetta ushered her footman forward, he dragged her luggage up into the stairwell ably enough, even as Bernadetta lingered outside it.

“Bernadetta?” asked Hubert. “Would you like to settle into your rooms before meeting your father?”

Bernadetta remained still, tense.

“No,” she said finally. “I want to get this over with.”

Hubert nodded, once to himself and then again to his footman.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he said. “Please just leave my bags in my room, I shall unpack them myself later.”

The footman bowed and received the saddlebag Hubert had been carrying in stride, despite how much luggage he had already been bowed down with, and headed down the opposite wing of the hall.

“Why _did_ you bring so much?” Bernadetta asked, still unmoving. “You’re hardly the type to need many creature comforts.”

“Maybe not,” said Hubert with a smile. “But I am the type to plan for any eventuality.”

Bernadetta sighed and hugged herself even tighter, nails digging into the leather of her jerkin sleeves. Hubert longed to do something, put a hand on her shoulder and keep her safe, take her home and make sure she never had to think about that man ever again. Instead he stood just as still as she did, mind buzzing with the memory of how she screamed at Edelgard’s touch.

“Alright,” Bernadetta whispered. “Let’s go.”

The library was the easternmost door in the massive east-west corridor that defined Varley Manor, the door somehow moving too easily on its hinges despite the massive weight of the dark wood. Hubert hadn’t known what he had expected from the library, but the one he did encounter was shockingly bland. The same sparkling white marble as the rest of the manor, the same near-black bookshelves that he had passed earlier, bright white light streaming in through a frosted glass dome. As they moved through the room, crossing a mosaic of black, white and silver tile, Hubert took a look at a few of the books, and found the same antique histories and strategy volumes that filled every noble library in Fódlan. It was almost annoying how little Hubert could tell from this collection. They all seemed to be equally untouched and ancient, except for a single shelf of newer-looking books, although Bernadetta was quick to point that out as her collection of botanical guides.

“I’m… surprised they’re still here,” he said to him, her whispered voice still managing to sound loud in the round of the empty chamber. She sighed, even that sounding far too much. “Honestly? He probably just forgot about them.”

“We can bring them back with us when we go home to Enbarr,” said Hubert, flinching at the echo of his own low voice.

For some reason, that simple statement made Bernadetta falter, stopping her in her tracks for a second as she searched Hubert’s face. But what was behind those wandering violet eyes, Hubert could not tell. She didn’t say anything either, just returned her gaze to the floor and clenched her fists yet again, the two of them resuming the journey to the small door nestled between two bookshelves, the path to it identified by a black rug bracketed by two black curled sofas.

Hubert found himself sympathising with Bernadetta’s steadily increasing breathing. Everything about Varley Manor seemed designed to make one feel at once too small to matter and too large, an out of place intruder.

“Come _on_ , Bernie,” Hubert realised Bernadetta was muttering as they passed the lounges.

But before he could ask her if she needed a moment or some water or a carriage ride home or a dagger, Bernadetta strode right up to the door and knocked. The silence that followed was hideous, as unbearable as the silence that follows a soldier’s final breath. But Bernadetta did not move. Her back remained facing Hubert, rigid and tense as she stared down the door, until, at last, a voice came from within.

“What?”

And such a simple word had such a profound effect on Bernadetta. Her strength turned brittle, her stern silence became instead the quiet of words jammed in a throat too tight to speak. One of her hands was trembling, and stepping around her, Hubert could see that her mouth was open, that she was trying to say something, but nothing could come out. A frown cut through her face as she swallowed, and yet still no words came. Hubert nodded to her, and despite how her eyes were unable to meet his, he could tell that she had seen him do so.

“Count Varley,” Hubert said. Even his own voice sounded wrong to him now. “My name is Hubert von Vestra, Minister of the Imperial Household. As per my recent missive, I have arrived to discuss the proceedings of the succession of the seat of Varley. And, of course, to offer my condolences to you regarding the passing of your wife.”

Count Varley’s sigh was audible through the door.

“Did my daughter make you come up here? Honestly, you don’t need to listen to her, Vestra, I assure you, I will not take it as a slight. Go on, get settled. I’ll see you for dinner, when we can speak like civilised men.”

“Of course,” said Hubert, and found himself bowing on instinct, despite the closed door between them.

But when he went to gauge Bernadetta’s reaction, she was no longer beside him.

She was nowhere at all within the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, constructive criticism is very much welcome! 
> 
> Also, I don't really have an update schedule for this, but I'm trying to stay at least one chapter ahead in terms of my writing before posting, so I don't accidentally end up never finishing this. I should say, I haven't successfully finished a fic since I was 13 and I'm 22 now so....... let's see if we can get back on track before the decade ends lmao.
> 
> Let's chat on twitter: [@commanderfreddy](https://twitter.com/commanderfreddy)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated **M:** _References to past physical abuse, and depictions of verbal and psychological abuse._

Bernadetta had stepped through time. Her room, the peak of Varley Manor’s sole tower, was a crypt in its own right. The world was sealed away within it, and once Bernadetta made it through the door, slamming a chair beneath the handle and throwing herself to the floor, she was a teenager again. Everything was a little dusty, a little dull, but it had been that way even when she was living there. Bernadetta had never been the type to disturb the world around her, not even when it consisted of her own possessions.

Everything was dusky lavender in the sunset light through the drapes, and looking down at her hands, even Bernadetta seemed to blend into the rest of the room. What had she been expecting? For things to be different? Nothing ever changed in Varley Manor. Though the servants may whirl through in an ever-shifting parade of names and faces, the ways they were treated were always the same. Just as the way Bernie was treated remained the same. The only difference were the twenty-seven potted plants dotted around her room. When she had left, her personal menagerie of carnivorous plants and flowering vines had stood thick and green and smiling in their own way. Bernadetta could not get a good look at them through the gloom, but it was clear that none of them had survived.

“Bernadetta?”

Bernie nearly jumped out of her skin, leaping up into a hunched, all-four pose like some cornered animal.

A light rap came at the door.

“You needn’t say anything,” Hubert’s voice came through the wood. “I just want to know if you’re in there.”

Bernadetta closed her eyes, breathed out, long and slow.

“It’s alright,” she said, voice hoarse, as if she had been screaming. “You… can come in, you know.”

Then she remembered how she’d barricaded herself in.

“Well, just a second.”

Before Hubert could muster up some well-meaning attempt to encourage her to stay isolated in her wretched childhood tomb, Bernadetta wrenched the chair away from the door and, out of habit, flicked the key in the long-broken lock.

“Sorry,” she said upon meeting Hubert’s eyes, immediately returning her own to the floor.

“You certainly have nothing to apologise for,” he said, the both of them unmoving.

“For… leaving you alone with him, I mean. I know I wouldn’t want that.”

Hubert gave her one of his towering smiles, the kind that used to scare her, before she came to see displays of his power as a shield instead of a threat.

“Rest assured, I somehow managed to restrain myself from ending him there and then.”

But Bernadetta could not bring herself to laugh, her arms coming instead to wrap tight in front of her, a little sigh escaping as she did so.

“I… will refrain from making light of such a subject in the future,” she heard Hubert say.

“It’s okay,” said Bernadetta, a familiar fuzzy exhaustion coming to settle over her. “You can say whatever you like.”

An intake of breath from somewhere before her made it sound like Hubert was about to speak, but nothing followed. Bernadetta wondered if she should invite him into her room, but some profound sense of wrongness stopped her from even formulating an invitation in her mind. It was the same instinct that kept her from inhaling underwater, and kept her from raising her gaze, too.

She picked at the dirt beneath her nails as yet another awkward moment passed between them.

“Any idea when he’ll summon us for dinner?”

Bernadetta felt her soul sinking even further at Hubert’s question. There really was so much he didn’t understand about the rules that governed these halls and the people that haunted them. Bernie, herself, however, found herself falling back in step with them as easily as putting on an old cloak. Her head was shaking, and she knew Hubert would be misinterpreting her reaction, but she didn’t know how to explain what was wrong with his question, with his assumptions.

“I’ll leave you in peace, then, until whenever we receive word.”

It felt wrong to let him go, to return to the dry-mouth and heavy-lidded world of her bedroom, but that same wall of rules stood strong between her brain and her mouth. Without the words to keep Hubert by her side, Bernadetta watched him leave. Alone on the threshold of her room, she found herself wondering just who else she would let walk away from her.

The sound of her door slamming shut sounded alien echoing through Bernadetta’s room, almost as bizarre as it was to hear panting and know it wasn’t from fear. To feel the burn in her throat not from the brink of tears but the edge of anger. She didn’t want to break anything in here. She didn’t want to shatter the specific kind of peace she had cultivated within these walls. But her plants were dead already.

It was stifling in its own way, her room, she realised. It had been her oasis for so long, but returning to it after coming to know the entire world outside Varley as an oasis of its own was…

Bernadetta tugged at her bangs.

Soporific.

The room was soporific. So many years spent here crying herself to sleep, growing exhausted after being forced to remain still for hours upon hours. The familiar routine of lotion on rope burns, cold, damp cloths lain upon her brow and anywhere else that ached, and then the lying in silence for hours, hours, waiting for sleep to claim her. The exhaustion of waking to another day she did not want to see. It had all seeped into the walls, and now her saferoom had become a wellspring of misery.

She had to change it. Fix it, now, before it became too much to bear, and the sorrow soaked into her bones. But… what would she even do? Throw out the dead plants, maybe, but she didn’t have healthy specimens to replace them with, and her shelves would be as bare as her mother’s decorating without them. Open the curtains, let in the cold glow of twilight and feel the wind on her face? But she had been riding all day, braving the winds since they’d come down from the Merceus Mountains.

And, goddess, she was so tired.

She’d done worse than their calm three-day ride, back in the war. Much worse. And yet, her bed was so inviting. No, it stank of memories and stale tea. It was the sleep that was inviting, oblivion that beckoned behind her eyelids.

She need only rest for a moment…

At the knock on her door, Bernadetta startled back to reality, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth and drool sticking her cheek to her pillow. The sun had long since set.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she whispered.

“I thought it would be best for the both of us to come down together,” Hubert was saying through the door. “Present a united front, as it were.” Bernadetta scrambled out of bed and hurried to the door. “Of course, if you don’t want to face your father just yet, I could send your dinner up-”

Bernadetta wrenched the door open, already regretting not brushing her hair before doing so, but standing before Hubert all the same.

“No, I’m ready,” she said.

Hubert smiled down at her slightly.

“Did you sleep through your dinner invitation?” he asked, eyeing how she rubbed at the creases on her cheeks.

Bernadetta gave a weak laugh. She wondered how long it would take for him to realise that she was never alerted to when dinner was served. In Varley Manor, Bernadetta was only ever late or hungry.

Hubert extended his arm to her, elbow bent and with that same incline of the head he had always offered Edelgard when accompanying her to formal events. Bernadetta smiled through her sweat at the gesture, both charming and terrifying.

Maybe she should try to act like Edelgard, she thought as she slotted her archer’s arm into the crook of Hubert’s unmuscled elbow. At least for this situation. The Emperor would never let being abandoned in her room go unmentioned. But she would not storm into the dining room and demand recompense either, such blunt strength she saved only for emergencies, for matters of life and death and war and change.

Hubert led her down the stairs by going down first, their arms slipping so that instead Bernadetta’s hand hovered in his palm, as if it were being cradled. Something about the gesture brought a smile to her face. It did not feel as if she were being shepherded or protected. It felt more like she was being displayed, Hubert’s palm a cushion on which the treasure of Varley Manor rested.

“Have you any preferences as to how upfront we shall be?” Hubert asked as they made their way through the ground floor hallway. “Regarding… our intentions?”

Bernadetta nibbled her lip, but something about the way Hubert was guiding her made her keep her posture straight, kept the image of Edelgard strong in her mind.

“I… defer to your judgement on that,” said Bernadetta. “You are the more experienced of us. Though, I suppose I do know my father best.”

Her free hand twitched and she ached to nibble at the quick of her nails, but the stretch of her shoulders, arm in arm with Hubert, reminded her to stay still.

“Any thoughts in particular?” asked Hubert.

“I think…” Bernadetta replied, the dining room almost upon them. “He might be more amenable to helping us if he thinks we’re going to posthumously criticise my mother, instead of-”

“Right,” said Hubert with a sharp nod, and Bernadetta realised with a flush that she’d almost blurted out their actual intentions.

 _Stupid, stupid_ -

“An excellent idea,” said Hubert, stopping before the dining hall doors, and giving her another one of the bows he reserved for Edelgard.

What would Edelgard herself think of Bernadetta, here? Despite her nerves, something in her brain refused to let her imagine that she would be anything but proud. And though she knew how desperately Enbarr needed their emperor, though she had seen Edelgard’s massive pile of petitions from civilians and officials alike, Bernadetta could not help but allow herself a moment of wishing that Edelgard had come with them.

The dining hall doors swung open, pulled by the same two Varley footmen that had accompanied them from their horses earlier. A long, high table of the same ebony wood that filled the rest of the manor stretched out before them, bare of anything except an inlaid silver gash in the wood, looking exactly the same as it had all the years of Bernadetta’s youth. And sitting at the head, staring down the hall at the two of them, was someone just as unchanged. Still as small, as exhausted and withered and bitter, with the same flyaway purple hair and the same mouth twisted by an invisible lemon, was Bernadetta’s father.

He snorted at the sight of her.

“My apologies for my daughter, once again, Count Vestra,” he said to Hubert, two soft fingers rapping impatiently against the table. “It seems despite all these years, she still is incapable of recognising a business dinner she is not invited to.”

“I see,” said Hubert. Bernadetta felt her hand slipping from his elbow, the urge to slink away rising, but his arm twitched, squeezing her in place. “Well then, I must say it is fortuitous that there are no dinners she has not been invited to, tonight.”

And with that, he led her up the table to the seat at her father’s right hand. Every step had her nerves jolting, but she forced herself to think that Hubert was just used to sitting at Edelgard’s left, and that was the only reason he was offering such a pride of place to her. Edelgard. Think of Edelgard. Her breathing evened out. Edelgard. Hubert pulled out the seat for her, giving her a bow as he did so, and she responded with the gentle but strong incline of the head Edelgard always gave him in return. And as he stepped away to slide behind the Count’s chair and take a seat on his left, Bernadetta kept her back straight and her eyes on him instead of picking away at nonextant threads of her riding coat.

Oh shit, she had never removed her riding gear.

 _Idiot! Pathetic little_ -

Edelgard. Edelgard.

If the Emperor came down to dinner in her riding gear, it would be the duty of the host to apologise for not giving her enough time to freshen up after her journey. They would cut the meal as short as she liked in order to make up for it. Hell, if Bernadetta received a guest of her own and had them show up in riding gear, she would feel nothing but genuine sympathy. So when she felt her father’s lip curl beside her, his watery eyes swiping up and down her body in growing disgust, she did not react.

It was his fault.

 _You were the one who ran off and took a nap like a child instead of getting dressed_.

He was the one who chased her up there, who sapped her of her energy.

 _He didn’t even do anything_.

“Thank you, Count Varley, for agreeing to meet with us,” said Hubert, at last in his place on the Count’s left. “Especially so soon after your wife’s passing.”

Varley let out another snort, waving a lazy two fingers at the footmen to signal the dinner service.

“You’re a smart kid, Vestra,” said the Count. “There’s no need to act like this was a great loss. Certainly not to me.”

Leaning toward Hubert, he began to laugh, the kind of conspiratorial chuckle that invited one to join, and ended in Bernadetta being slapped if she dared even smile during it. Well, she wasn’t going to make that mistake ever again. Courtesy, however, drew from Hubert a watered-down smile, the kind that was plastered on faces in formal dinners across the continent and could mean absolutely anything depending on the face. Bernadetta didn’t know whether or not to be comforted by the pure malice she could see lingering in Hubert’s eyes.

“Still, I understand this is invariably a period of transition for you and Varley-”

“Hardly,” drawled Varley, shooing the thought away with a hand.

And then, as the gesture seemed to remind him of earlier, looked around for his footmen. His right eye twitched when he did not find anyone bringing out food yet, and Bernadetta dug her nails into the cushion of her seat to keep herself from flinching away from the little movement. 

“That witch had me locked up in here for years while she went gallivanting off in Enbarr doing Goddess-knows-what,” the Count continued. “Really, I’ve been able to run things quite nicely here all the while. We certainly turned a pretty profit during the war, what with all the demands for weaponry.”

Hubert was nodding, a kind of bland and gentle interest on his face. It looked so out of place on him that Bernadetta could almost laugh, but her father didn’t seem to notice a thing. Not that he ever really paid much attention to those he was speaking to. That had always bothered her, perhaps more than was reasonable. He was so confident in assuming the thoughts of others without even reading their expressions, but when it came to Bernadetta, he was like a hawk. Every muscle twitch, every exhale, it was all an insult to him. But Hubert could sit there with an expression more befitting a young cow than a man who had personally assassinated his father, and Manfred von Varley didn’t bat an eye.

It more than bothered her, she realised. It angered her.

“We’re certainly very grateful for your mines,” said Hubert. “Varley steel was invaluable to our armouries. I’d be interested in seeing just how much you contributed to the war effort, over the coming days.”

“Why, of course,” said Varley, a satisfied grin eking across his face. “I take pride in what I have accomplished for the Empire despite my… circumstances, during the war.”

“As you no doubt should,” said Hubert. His nostril twitched, Bernadetta noticed, and she wondered if all this insincerity was as exhausting as it looked. “That is, in fact, precisely why we are here, is it not, Bernadetta?”

Bernie froze. Fuck. Hubert had been doing so well, too, and now he’d gone and thrown it all down the toilet because he couldn’t comprehend just how much Bernadetta could ruin her father’s day by existing. Why did he do that? Why couldn’t he have just kept the lead he’d taken and schmoozed his way into accessing Varley’s records? Why was Bernadetta even here at all?

Edelgard. Think of Edelgard. What she do here? Well, Edelgard and Hubert were always on the exact same wavelength, so she would just step in and make everything okay without blinking.

That didn’t help. And it wasn’t even true. She had seen Edelgard and Hubert argue before, and she had seen them plan out their methods of attack and assess their previous endeavours to improve future situations. Edelgard didn’t just make everything right with a snap of her hands, she put work in to steer conversations where they needed to go. And here, now, Hubert had shown Bernadetta the way. She only need follow it with the kind of grace and poise Edelgard always seemed to exude in public.

“Yes,” she said, at last turning to face her father. “The Emperor has requested-”

“For fuck’s sake, Bernadetta, why can’t you ever just let people talk?”

All of Bernadetta’s joints locked. Sometimes, when the panic came over her, she would keep her eyes open but be unable to see. How she longed for that now. Her eyes were indeed jammed open, but they still worked perfectly, keeping her stuck staring and her father, his face full of not simple fury, but… disgust. Confusion. Completely uncomprehending of her existence, of her daring to speak.

“The first time we have a noble guest in years and you go and blunder about like a blind dog,” Varley continued.

“My apologies, Count Vestra,” Bernadetta found herself saying. Somehow, the expectation to apologise was enough to get her eyes to move, meeting Hubert’s again.

But as to the emotions behind those eyes, she could not tell. Hubert was restraining himself, she realised. Just as she must do the same.

“As Lady Bernadetta was saying,” Hubert continued, and Bernie’s throat tightened. How was he still risking himself like this, how was he still trying to stick his neck out for her? “The Emperor has asked us to take a look at the recent history of Varley’s administration so we can best plan for the future of the County, and come to an understanding as to the respective roles of the recent rulers in order to establish the most effective leader as the future Count.”

Varley was watching him, nodding. Bernadetta could not tell if he was buying it, if he was jumping to the conclusions she needed him to.

“As you mentioned, House Varley were indispensable to the war effort,” said Hubert. “And we intend to see that nothing is overlooked in our investigation as to the future leadership of Varley. That nothing is neglected in favour of things returning to the way they have ‘always’ been.” Hubert gave the Count a seemingly knowing smile.

At last, the duo of footmen returned, each bearing a covered silver platter. But despite the Count’s clear continued impatience, he paid them no mind as they brought his dinner before him, and instead continued speaking to Hubert.

“Is that so? Well, do not hesitate to ask me for any assistance in that dreadfully dreary business of record analysis,” he said. “I’m more than happy to explain anything you may come across.”

Bernadetta watched the two men ignore their plates as a growing pit of nausea spread within her. Though there were only two footmen, and it would have been crass to overload one by having him carry two plates, Bernie knew with an unshakable certainty that there would not be a third plate coming out for her.

“You have my sincerest gratitude,” Hubert was saying. “Your cooperation-”

“Lady Bernadetta?”

A footman was standing behind her, bent slightly at the waist so he could speak into her ear. Her father flashed him a glare, and increased his volume in whatever nonsense he was saying to Hubert now. Bernadetta, however, nodded, and leant back to invite the footman to keep talking.

“I am afraid the cook was not notified as to you dining tonight,” the footman said, voice softer. “Our sincerest apologies. Please, whatever you would like to eat, we will prepare it for you immediately.”

Count Varely was repeatedly looking over at the footman, furious with how much time he was wasting on Bernadetta.

“Oh, I’m really not hungry,” Bernadetta whispered hurriedly. “After the ride and all-”

“Would you care for some soup, my lady?” the footman asked, painfully earnest. “Our cook has a lovely vegetable broth on the fire-”

“Yes, yes that would be nice,” said Bernadetta. She didn’t know what to do with her face. She needed to show the footman she wasn’t trying to be snappish or rude, but if she showed any kind of sympathy to the staff – if she showed a significant level of _any_ emotion – her father would… She dug her nails into her palm.

He was staring at her. Her father. That same look of disgust and confusion that she had dared do something, anything, while in his presence.

“This is a truly wonderful dish,” said Hubert, and Bernadetta almost cried with relief when her father returned his attention to him. “Is this sole? I do so enjoy such delicate fish.”

“Ah, yes!” said the Count. “As you may imagine, ocean fish are not as common here as the fish of the Greater Strom River are, but I do so enjoy the taste. And, of course, the Emperor’s representative deserves only our very best.”

Bernadetta swallowed. Hubert made polite small talk about the river and the fishing industry and how hard it was to ship good fruit and fish all the way upriver to the mountains and the state of the hunting opportunities in the forest that spread down from the Oghma Mountains to just behind the Manor, and Bernadetta could only sit there. She found herself missing Hubert, in a way. Though he was sitting just across from her, he was unreachable when her father was in the room. Unavailable as a source of comfort as both of them contorted their personalities to appease the withered creature that sat at the table head.

Bernadetta’s soup arrived, along with yet more apologies from the poor footman, and it was pleasant enough. But the way her father would occasionally glance at it, as if someone had placed their bare feet on his table, turned it to sour dust in her mouth.

Hubert’s dinner of sole smelled really nice.

“I must apologise, but I am afraid I am sincerely exhausted after our journey from Enbarr,” said Hubert, resting his silverware over the remains of his fish. “No doubt Bernadetta feels the same.”

She did not make the mistake of reacting this time. Instead, she sat in silence, staring at her soup and letting her father and Hubert fuss through the pleasantries of leaving dinner until Hubert drew out her chair for her and offered his arm once again. He said farewell to the Count, and Bernadetta said nothing at all. And as they walled through the halls of Varley Manor, neither of them said a word until Hubert stopped at the bottom of her spiral staircase.

“Say the word, and I will have a horse ready to take you back to Enbarr in seconds.”

Bernadetta could not make herself look up at him, let alone reply. But neither could she let her hand slip from his arm. She clung to him, like a kitten up a tree, and begged him to somehow know what to do.

“I’ll leave you in peace.”

Every inch of her cried out for him to stay, desperate pleas for him to keep holding her rising all the way up her throat before dying on her tongue. And then he was gone. Walking down the hallway to the room that had once been her mother’s. Despite the ache deep within her, she could not bring herself to blame him.

He was Hubert. She’d asked for him to accompany her specifically because he was adept at dealing with the trickery of nobility, and because she knew he could defend her from physical harm. If she had wanted someone who knew exactly what to say and do when she was upset, she should have brought… Dorothea? No, she had more than enough issues of her own, and the last thing she deserved was to be dragged back into the world of noble turmoil. Petra was strong and confident like no one else, but though Bernadetta loved her as a friend, the two had never been very good at thinking like each other. Linhardt and Caspar were out, on virtue of being Linhardt and Caspar. Ferdinand was good at emotions. But he was so… vivacious, and, besides, he and Bernadetta weren’t close, not the way he was with Hubert and Edelgard.

Edelgard.

Should she have brought Edelgard? The thought was so ridiculous it was enough to unstick Bernadetta’s feet from the floor and send her scurrying back up to her room. It wasn’t even the right way to phrase the question – she _couldn’t_ have brought Edelgard, because no matter how much Bernadetta trailed after her like some snivelling puppy, Edelgard was the Emperor. A hell of a lot more people needed her than stupid little Bernadetta. But she couldn’t stop imagining it. She thought of how kind Edelgard had been, even when they were at the academy, and Edelgard had been organising a coup in secret. Somehow, she’d still found time to sit with Bernadetta and share her fears, so that Bernie wouldn’t feel so alone.

Edelgard had been the one to tell her that she didn’t listen to what people actually said, and just jumped to the worst possible conclusion. And though Bernadetta had already kind of known that, it was nice to hear it in such plain language. Nice to know that someone was thinking of her, had paid attention to the way she acted, and cared enough to try and help her. It was more than nice, actually.

Bernadetta’s door clicked shut behind her. Edelgard wasn’t here. She wasn’t going to step out from behind her wardrobe and tell her everything that she’d done wrong during dinner, and how to fix it.

She should talk with Hubert. Soon. Maybe in the morning. This wasn’t going to get any easier until they discussed just what her relationship with her father looked like. But there had to be something she could do, here and now. She was exhausted but still buzzing with unused energy, all the things she longed to have said and done during the dinner still sitting right at the cusp of her nerves. And, if she was being honest, she was still more than a little hungry. The soup had been light, and she hadn’t had much time with it, despite the efforts of that footman-

 _Shit_!

Bernadetta’s brain whirled into overdrive as she remembered just how many dirty looks her father had shown the poor man during dinner. She had to do something, she told herself as she stumbled back out her bedroom door, still in her riding clothes. She didn’t know what she could do that would have any actual impact on his life or his employment, but she had to try. She stumbled down the stairs, her head bouncing left and right as she tried to think of where he would be at around eight in the evening. Dinner hadn’t ended too long ago, so maybe he was still down in the kitchen, bringing the dishes to the scullery and eating leftovers? On instinct, she peeked out one of the north-facing windows to look for the giant sundial that formed the centrepiece of the rear courtyard.

Terrible idea, considering it was already pitch-black out.

_Just go, the cook might know where he went!_

Bernadetta had not run through the halls of Varley since she was old enough to understand the concept of cause and effect – namely, that running through her father’s Hall caused the effect of being locked in the nearest room. But what the hell was he going to do to her now? Bernadetta had learned to pick locks within her first moon at the academy and how to do throw a grown man off his feet within the first two weeks of the war. It was what her father could do to the footman that worried her. It wouldn’t be hard for the poor boy to knock the crumbled old man off his feet, but as for how he would feed his family with the Count out for his blood, Bernadetta didn’t want to think of that. 

“Um, chef?” Bernadetta called, blustering down the stone steps of the kitchen.

“Nobody down here with the kinda brass to be called “chef”,” came a mucus-y reply as Bernadetta rounded the corner into the main kitchen hall. “Just- oh, fuck! Lady Bernadetta!”

The weedy young lady standing before the main hearth nearly jumped out of her skin when she realised who had entered her kitchen, dropping more utensils than any one person should have been holding at once. Bernadetta cringed at the noise, but refused to slip back around behind the corner. And a good thing, too, because she realised just who else was in the kitchen.

“Hubert?” asked Berndetta, cutting through the young cook’s apologies.

Hubert was standing before a motley jumble of staff, each of them sitting on some storage or cooking equipment, bowls of the same soup Bernadetta had momentarily supped on resting in hands and laps among them all. Her eyes adjusting to the low firelight of the basement kitchen, Bernadetta realised the three staffers they’d brought from Enbarr were also among them.

“Bernadetta,” said Hubert, a rare and genuine surprise on his face. “Are you well?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she replied. She offered a little smile to the assembled staff to prove it. “I was… I was actually just looking for, um… I don’t know your name.”

She made brief eye contact with the footman who’d brought her the soup, an awkward open-palm gesture indicating she was speaking of him.

“Luka,” said the olive-skinned footman replied. Clearly on-guard, his hunched posture emphasised his already prominent jowls.

“Luka,” breathed Bernadetta, and realised she was nearly panting. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. My father, he… You helped me and- I just remembered, you said your whole family worked here! Is… What can I do to help?”

Luka blinked.

“Are you… worried about me?” he asked. As he swallowed, Bernadetta realised he was probably younger than she was. Goddess.

“Of course I am! I know what my father’s like.”

“There’s no cause for concern.”

Bernadetta, tense as she’d been when actually in the same room as her father, whipped to face Hubert. How could he say something like that?

“Luka will be earning some extra money while we’re here,” said Hubert, fixing her with a meaningful look.

Now it was Bernadetta’s turn to blink.

“…Hubert?” she asked again, this time more apprehensive than anything.

“Nothing _untoward_ ,” said Hubert.

“Nothing he wouldn’t be doing anyway,” said the cook with a smirk. “Snoop.”

“Mina!” whined Luka, letting his soup spoon clatter against his bowl as he dropped it.

They were all young. All _very_ young. When she was a little girl, everyone in the village around Varley Manor was having little babies named Mina. And now they all worked for her father, after he’d fired their mothers.

“Um, have you… have you all talked to Hubert about what it’s like, here? What it’s like working for my father?” Bernadetta asked. “Because… we just had dinner. The three of us.”

“Oh, Goddess, yeah, dinner, fuck,” the cook said, finally stepping forward. “I am _so_ sorry we didn’t make a plate for you, like really. The Count said just him and Hubert would be eating, I thought you were just tired after the ride or something. You must be starving, shit!”

“Sorry about Mina’s language. This is why we keep her locked down in the basement.” said the other footman, not-Luka, getting laughs from the other Varley staff.

“No, no, I’m not mad about that,” said Bernadetta. “That’s the way it’s always been. He’s never… I’m not supposed to dine with him.”

The kitchens were never silent, but aside from a leaking water pump and the bubble of the perpetual pot of broth, it got pretty close.

Something was growing within Bernadetta, something she had only felt brief flashes of before. Something that had been festering all her life.

“When I was growing up, it went like this." Her hands trembled as she gestured. "He would place his dinner order two hours before he ate, and when he did, he would tell them how many guests he had. The guests would get whatever he was eating. Whoever took his order was to go straight to the kitchens, and make no detour to either my mother’s rooms or mine. My mother had her own staff and the stomach of a bird, so… I mean, she was… She’s dead now, anyway. He’d pay the staff to spy on each other, to make sure none of them would try and include me in meals. Any meals. Any… any ‘public events’, and Goddess knows to me anything outside of my room counted as public and anything more exciting than needlework counted as an event. If we had company, if we had entertainers, if there was any sort of civil event like a justice meeting or will-reading or a festival or even Saint’s Days, it wasn’t for Bernie. Bernie can’t be allowed to _expect_ things. You let children grow up expecting things and they’re harder appease, harder to keep curtailed and quiet. Harder to sell off to some old man to breed crest-heirs.”

Bernadetta swallowed. She was standing somewhere else in the kitchen, her breath heavy.

“It’s the same way he treats his staff, right?” she looked over to the assembled crowd, who were watching her intently. “You give them a lunch break, they expect a dinner break. You give them their pay, they want to be paid next week, too. You let them go home on festivals, they want to go home on weekends. And when your fist has been so tight for so long, it curls into that shape. Becomes rigid. And it’s easier just to use it to strike those who won’t put up with you than it is to loosen it, even a little.”

Hubert was standing close by her shoulder now. An energy buzzed within him, the sense of a man who was just milliseconds from grabbing her, if need be. Bernadetta took a deep breath, closed her eyes.

“He’s the same with me, the same with you.” She really wished she’d had something more to eat. “Same as he was with my mother.” Her hands clenched. “So, I have a request. From now on, if you get told to set the table for two, set it for three. If you’re told to make one of a dish, make two. And if I don’t eat with him, let him wonder why. I want him to look at the empty place and wonder where his daughter went. What he did with her.” She breathed out, shaky. “It won’t do anything, I know. I think if it was even possible for him to feel regret, he’d have enough to drown in. But, still. I want him to know things are different, now.”

Bernadetta’s eyes snapped open.

“A-and I want things to be different for you, too!” The sight of everyone gathered in front of her set her voice stumbling a little, but though it shook her ability to speak, it only bolstered her thoughts. “Here!”

The one advantage of never changing out of her riding gear was that her pockets were still full of travelling nonsense, and after digging through a pocket of sugar cubes, she managed to find her little hedgehog coinpurse.

“I don’t know how much you’re being paid, but I’m pretty sure you’re not getting paid as regularly as you deserve, so…”

“Hey, woah,” said the-footman-who-wasn’t-Luka as Bernadetta set about pressing gold coins into everyone’s hands. “You don’t have to do this, My Lady. You’re not responsible for your father… Everyone in Varley knows how he is with us. With you, too.”

“I’m not trying to do this to try and win your support, or even to try and atone for my father or anything,” Bernadetta said. “I just… genuinely think you deserve this. I know how hard it is to get food that actually tastes good all the way out here, not to mention any goods that aren’t part of the metalworking industry.”

The staff looked at each other, some of them staring at the money Bernadetta had passed out, while others had pocketed it immediately. The bowls of soup all sat, forgotten, on barrels and crates and on the floor.

“Are you gonna oust your father?” asked Mina the cook.

Luka and one of the maids winced, while an elderly footman let out a genuine groan of exasperation.

“I’m just asking!” cried Mina. “Certainly not judging…”

Bernadetta looked to Hubert and he gave her a firm nod. He’d probably spent the whole time she was napping vetting the staff, getting to know them, figuring out whether he could trust them, all while she wasted the evening away…

She blinked herself off that train of thought.

“I’m not going to hurt him-”

She could have sworn she heard someone say “shame”, but if anyone had, she couldn’t tell who. And yet, she found her heart lightening at even the potential of comradery.

“But I do think he is unfit to rule, and I intend to prove that,” she announced, and while she could not keep the tremble from her shoulders, her voice was steadier than she hoped. “Edel- The Emperor is going to take him to trial, once we have enough evidence that his rule here has done more harm than good.”

“And after he’s gone?” the elderly footman asked.

Bernadetta met his eyes. He looked familiar, like her father’s old butler, Johannes. But Johannes would only be in his late thirties, maybe forties by now, certainly a far cry from the bald and wrinkled man that sat before her. Perhaps his father – no, he didn’t have a father… uncle? Grandfather, even? – had been forced to take on an appointment after Johannes was finally let go, after spending nearly all of Bernadetta’s life in service. The thought made her heart sink, to think of the meek young man she had known since childhood finally overstepping her father’s incomprehensible boundaries and being cast into the cold. But she could not dwell on that now – whoever this man was, whether he was related to Johannes or not, he had asked her a question.

“After he’s gone, we’d like to see whoever is best suited to governing Varley ascend to the county seat,” said Bernadetta. All eyes remained on her. “And that doesn’t necessarily mean me. It _shouldn’t_ mean me, that would defeat the whole point. It should be someone who lived here, I mean, actually lived here, instead of just…”

Bernadetta pressed her palms to her eyes and shook her head.

Think of Edelgard, stand tall, stand firm.

But how could she emulate Edelgard when she didn’t have a plan? Not a real one… She barely had nay idea what she was saying. Had she really just shoved coins into everyone’s palms and babbled away before suddenly falling silent to pull at her face?

The fact that no one was saying anything was perhaps the worst part of it. Nothing good ever came of silence. And yet, she did not know how to grapple with speech, either.

“I’m sorry,” she said. And then again, louder, stronger, hands coming down even though she still could not open her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bother you all with this. You’ve already got so much on your plates just trying to deal with my father. I do appreciate you wanting to help, though. If you are able to assist Hubert however he requested, it would mean a lot. But more than that, I would like you all to watch out for yourselves, and each other, if you can. There’s no meaning to any of this if you don’t make it to see a Varley without him.”

“We’re not gonna _die_ or nothing,” said Mina, as Bernadetta opened her eyes.

The elderly footman who looked like Johannes nudged her. Bernadetta knew he must be thinking of the same thing as her. The reason why she was so locked up, why it was so hard to say anything to her staff at all. Why it had been so hard, even at the academy, a day’s ride from him, she’d trembled at the smiles of her commoner classmates.

The reason why she had to do this, why she could not falter, no matter the cost.

“Perhaps not,” she forced out. “But I- you…” She swallowed. “We all know families who’ve moved to elsewhere in the Empire, unable to bear our county any longer.” And then, more to herself, she added, “I’m sick of that.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” said Luka.

“If you’re in danger, if your family is-” Bernadetta said, squeezing her fists tight.

“I know,” said Luka, and the smile he gave her was genuine, full of trust.

It was horrible to see.

Hubert had somehow moved to stand behind her, and Bernadetta jumped at his slight inhale, having nearly forgotten he was there.

“I think we are all in agreement that we would like everything to be over as soon as possible,” Hubert said, and Bernadetta felt her shoulders hunch in embarrassment. Once again, she’d messed it all up, and now if fell to her friends to clean up her mistakes. “As I said from the beginning, you under no obligation to help. But I hope Lady Bernadetta has convinced you of how valued your eyes and ears are, and how eager we are to compensate you for their use. Do not hesitate to seek us out for the slightest thing. If only for this one visit, Varley is our duty, and your happiness and safety: our tithe to the Emperor.”

Hubert gave them a solemn nod, slow and heavy enough to suggest at a more meaningful gesture, but nowhere near deep enough to cause a discomfort of status. And when he turned and headed out of the kitchen, Bernadetta scurried after him.

Once again, the two were walking in silence through the halls of Varley.

“You did well,” said Hubert and it felt like a kick to the gut.

“Please don’t tease me.”

“I mean it,” he said, and for some horrible reason, he stopped walking.

Bernadetta stopped, too, though she could feel her body buzzing with festering energy.

“If I’d spoken like that in parliament, you’d be telling me to go take a long holiday,” Bernie said quietly.

“But you weren’t speaking in parliament,” replied Hubert, arms folded. “You were speaking in a kitchen, to a group of overworked and underpaid servants, desperate for empathy. You gave it to them, in quantities even I hadn’t expected.”

“I overwhelmed them,” said Bernadetta, her posture growing stiff. “I’ve made them uncomfortable and alienated them in doing so.”

“You didn’t overstep any boundaries-”

“I threw money at them like they were beggars on the street!” Bernie’s hands came to cover her face. “I’ve stolen their dignity. I have to… give it back.”

Her legs twisted, a stupid impulse turning her back the way she came, even as mortification tried to drag her back and sent her ridiculous flailing pile of limbs stumbling.

Hubert caught her elbow.

“Sorry,” he said, letting go immediately.

“It’s okay,” said Bernadetta.

And then it was quiet again.

“I’m guessing you’d be upset if I asked if you’d like to return to the Palace,” said Hubert.

“Furious,” replied Bernadetta, crossing her own arms. Her pulse still raced beneath her skin.

Hubert nodded. “Nonetheless, I feel obliged to warn you then that dignity will continue to be in very short supply from here on out.”

“I’m not worried about _that_ ,” said Bernadetta. “When have I ever had any dignity? I’m just… worried. About how I interact with everyone else here. I don’t know how painfully obvious it was, but you can guess that I never really got to talk to the staff much, growing up. And in Enbarr, now, y’know, Edelgard puts such emphasis on fostering equal relationships between everyone so there’s like – well, not _rules_ there, but… expectations in a way. But I don’t have that here, where everyone’s been sealed away in this horrible marble tomb for the past twenty years with all these pre-war roles and relationships. And the last thing I want out of all of this is to end up mistreating them, looking down on them, blinded in my attempts to get rid of my father.”

She’d hunched over, deflating as the words poured out, but now Hubert stood over her. Looming would be the word, but protectively. Like an overhang in a storm.

“You’re nothing like your father.”

Bernadetta swallowed.

“Maybe…” she whispered. “But there are lots of ways to be cruel.”

“I saw none tonight.”

The two remained still, hunched into each other’s space against the chill of the empty corridors, as Bernadetta let herself breathe.

 _Edelgard. Edelgard… I want to do you proud_.

“What was the other young footman’s name? The freckly one, who wasn’t Luka?”

“Oskar,” replied Hubert. “His parents raise goats.”

Bernadetta nodded.

“I will remember that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this chapter taking a little longer than the last, but as I said, I really have no schedule for this, and I have to imagine the next one won't be up until well into January what with the chaos of Christmas and New Years, but I am doing my best to stay at least a chapter a head of what I've posted so I don't end up abandoning it or anything.
> 
> As always, please give me any constructive criticism you have, either here or on twitter @commanderfreddy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated **M** : _Depictions of verbal abuse and allusions to previous abuse, including physical violence. (Bernadetta does not directly interact with her father in this chapter)_

_Her Majesty, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg_

_Imperial Suite,_

_Palace of Enbarr_

_Enbarr_

_Lady Bernadetta von Varley_

_Varley Manor, 9 th Day of Wyvern Moon_

_Edelgard,_

_Hi!_

_I hope everything’s doing well in Enbarr, I’m sure it is, you’ve always got such a lock on everything. I just wanted to let you know that we arrived safe in Varley. ~~Well, safe as anyone can be when they’re in a house with my father.~~ Sorry, that was dark. We really are both fine! Hubert and I. And Hubert’s staff are settling in well, too. If anything they have rather a shortage of tasks, considering how eager the existing staff are to tell us anything we ask about my father. I wonder if Hubert’s highly-trained operatives will be bored with their lack of snooping._

_Speaking of snooping, that’s what we’re going for today. This’ll be our first full day in Varley and I must admit I am not particularly looking forward to the morning. (Please forgive me for writing to you at something like 4AM… sleeping here is difficult. Not in that it’s hard to fall asleep, but in that I can’t sleep deeply. It’s like I am always dozing but never resting.) I never really had a morning routine here before. I’d just sort of… keep sleeping and whenever I woke up I’d get back to working on whatever silly thing I’d been up late doing the night before. But I didn’t bring any embroidery (which was kind of a mistake I think because like I said sleeping is hard haha) and all the twenty-seven plants I had here before are really very quite dead actually ahaha._

_You don’t need to read all of that the the point is Today we’re going to try and get my father to tell us stuff of his own volition. Well, Hubert will be. It’ll end in disaster if I’m anywhere near my father, and we need him to be in a good mood I suppose, but our Idea is sort of suggesting that we’re going to be auditing my mother’s leadership instead of his because Goddess knows how keen he is to rub her name in the mud. I’ll let you know of our progress as soon as I can. If you like. I mean, as just a mission report if you like not all this rambling. But Hubert was already sending his groom back with his letters this morning so I figured I’d write you something now even if I don’t have much to report and I’m not sure when we’ll have a messenger to send anything about our actual progress. _

_I just wanted to say hello, I suppose._

_Um, you know, thinking about you has sort of helped me. That sounds silly, I’m sorry. I suppose you’re just… a really good leader, you know? Inspiring the troops and all that, haha. I like thinking of you counting on me, actually. I know you’ve stressed a thousand times over that you don’t… need me to do this which is the opposite of the thing I like to think I guess but knowing that I can help like this, that I have some sort of expertise (even if it is just knowing the temper of an old man) that can help the Empire… it makes me glad. I think maybe I’d like to keep helping, at least in some sort of way, even when I get back. I’d like to do anything to make things easier for you, really._

_Sorry for rambling on so long, if you skipped to the end: hello! Everything’s fine! We haven’t accomplished much yet except for establishing my father is still awful to his staff. More reports to come. If you want!_

_Anyway, sorry. Again._

_Bye!_

_\- Bernie_ ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

* * *

_PM Ferdinand von Aegir_

_Palace of Enbarr_

_HvV_

_Varley, WM 9_

_Ferdinand,_

_We arrived in Varley the afternoon previous after an uneventful journey. I was received warmly by the Count, though I count this as more a loss than victory, considering his reception of Lady Bernadetta, which began as non-existent and ended in a verbal altercation, in which our Bernadetta did not say a word, due to her disposition. I have met many unpleasant men in my life, as you are well aware. I had never before thought that it was a boon that I encountered them in public spheres such as parliament, or openly hostile situations. To see a man act like this in the safety of his home, with a young woman of only the gentlest temperament, stops the heart and silences the mouth. Had you been here, I fear our roles would have been swapped, myself forced into the role of the levelheaded, and you no doubt ready to remove his head from his shoulders. I know how it pains both you and Edelgard to see the innocent harmed, and while I consider my jaded heart more protected than atrophied, I find myself nonetheless effected._

_It is only Lady Bernadetta’s seemingly endless well of resolve that has stayed my hand from anything drastic, though in recompense I find myself unable to sleep. I ask you therefore forgive any illegibility, as I am writing only by moonlight in an attempt to not disturb the rest of the household. I wish the Count only the worst of sleep, plagued by bright lights and loud noises, bedbugs and intruders alike, but after seeing the conditions his staff work in, I have more than half a mind to seize all his property and kick him off it before sunrise. His head chef is a woman of only 20 years of age, having driven away every other cook in the county through his horrific management. Rest assured, these facts will be well reflected in my report to Edelgard and, later, the charges I bring against him in court, but I nonetheless feel the need to tell them to you, as soon as possible. Said young woman reports only being paid sporadically, usually after the Count has come into a new source of wealth, which I would usually take as a sign that his coffers are empty, yet she reports that he somehow has a consistent supply of ocean fish delivered to his mountain-side kitchens. It is obscene. In a way, it reminds me of the excesses of the former Marquis Vestra, who would ply his son with every treat and trinket under the sun while the Imperial Princess lay chained in the dungeons alongside the corpses of her siblings, screaming until she was never capable of raising her voice again._

_I digress. I am not in a good mood._

_I would say I wish you were here, but I would not subject you to this, never in a thousand years. Your particular breed of diplomacy shines on dancefloors and laughs during dinners, winning us the support of minor nobles across the continent as you reassure them of their importance to the Empire. If I brought you here, I fear you’d drown in silence. Instead, I will simply say I long for the day when all this is over, when Varley is in the gentle hands of our Lady Bernadetta (or, at the very least, under the direct management of the Crown), and I am back in your slightly less gentle hands._

_I do still feel so embarrassed committing such sentiments to paper, despite the fact that no one would dare intercept a spymaster’s mail, despite how ardently I desire you to know… how ardently I desire you, I suppose. They have given me the Countess’s former quarters, I suppose because they believe my station demands such luxury, and while I am far from affected by the morbidity of sleeping in a dead woman’s bed, I find it disgusting on another level, how quickly and eagerly the Count has his wife’s private spaces invaded by strangers. The rooms reek of a severe opulence. There is little decoration, but what does exist is of a value I cannot estimate. The weather here is terrible, however, it is not as cold as Garreg Mach could get. Nevertheless, I find myself shivering when I am in my chambers alone. No doubt when I finally force myself to try and sleep, I will end up tossing and confused as I doze, searching for the body I long to have beside my own._

_Please permit me a moment of selfishness in requesting that you write back promptly. I had thought the halls of the Palace to be empty, but they are nothing compared to this. In the less than twelve hours I have spent here, I find myself understanding more of why Bernadetta’s fears take the shapes that they do than I have in the entire prior history of our friendship. At the very least, I ask you send something to signify that you and Edelgard are doing well._

_I am told that worrying is one of my specialties, and I fear I am fast becoming a master of the craft during this brief separation._

_Edelgard will no doubt send me a full mission update in reply to my reports. I ask that you send me at least some note of how she is doing in the more human sense. I know she is no longer the child that was entrusted to my care, but, as you have told me many, many times, love cares not for rationale, and that goes both for my love of you and my love of her._

_Please do not drink too much coffee before bed, I know you make that silly soppy face and say it reminds you of me, but you’re needed by the people, and unlike me, you do not have sleep deprivation training._

_Say hello to that wretched horse of yours._

_-Hubert_

_P.S. Chocolate-covered coffee beans also should not be consumed before bed, and you know it._

* * *

Hubert’s hands shook as they rinsed his razor clean, the drip of the faucet as loud as cannon fire in his ears. Hubert did not get nervous, and running on four hours of sleep was more his norm than exception. All the same, he shook. Was this what the average person felt when they walked through a tomb? Hubert had no fear of the resting places of the dead, he knew exactly what dwelt in those shadows and they were, really, rather mundane. One skeleton looked much the same as any other. But Varley Manor…

He had no idea what lurked within its walls.

He slapped himself as he towelled off the remains of his shaving cream. Being dramatic wasn’t going to help anyone. Besides, Ferdinand wasn’t even here to enjoy it. Sure, he did not know every single object in the Manor, but he’d wandered quietly the night before, poking his heads in doors, and found nothing besides rows of empty bedrooms and furniture-wrapped parlours. None of that mattered, anyway. The only thing he need concern himself with that lay hidden somewhere in these halls were the Varley County ledgers, and any possible sins he could glean from within them.

He folded the towel away and hunched over, staring into the vanity mirror before him. It was slightly lower set than the one he had back in the Palace, and the one in Ferdinand’s rooms, which he’d used more times than was comfortable to think about. It wasn’t surprising, the difference. After all, this had been Bernadetta’s mother’s room, and the late Countess had been even shorter than her now-gangly daughter. That did not, however, make the reminder, any easier to stomach.

_Focus_.

He did not speak aloud to himself. That was a dangerous habit to get into.

_You are not going to let another young woman languish in pointless suffering._

_Get the Varley ledger. Find evidence of his avarice. Back it up with the people’s testimonies before a magistrate. Get Bernadetta the hell out of here_.

Hubert closed his eyes and breathed as deep as he could manage without making a sound. In the airy angles of the Countess’s quarters, that was not very deep at all.

And then, out of the blue, there was a new sound.

Something sliding, distantly, and then the unmistakable sound of something hitting the ground, a full storey below.

Hubert was up from the basin in an instant, running to the window before his mind could even begin speculating horrible possibilities. It was a light impact, nowhere near the weight of a person, and yet some formless horror still gripped at his gut and insisted that something horrible had happened. He pulled open the overly large window, unwieldy in its weight, and stuck his head out to stare at the ground. Below him was a flowerbed. All of its inhabitants were long dead, not only wilted but rotten. Nothing, however, seemed to have landed it. Nor on the path beside it, or the lawn beyond that.

And then came the sliding sound again, from somewhere above him.

Hubert twisted his head, his body, so that he was leaning out the window with the ledge digging into his back, staring up at the solitary tower above him. The window one up and one to his left was open, and leaning out of it in a much more comfortable fashion than himself was Bernadetta. She looked out over the nothingness for a moment, the early morning mist stirring her hair. And then she ducked back inside, only to emerge seconds later, holding a pot. A little black thing, overflowing with leaves and stalks gone brown and brittle after years of neglect. With a great heft of her arms, Bernadetta finally revealed to him the source of that strange sliding sound. The leaves, the twigs, the roots and al the dry, dusty dirt they had sat in all went flying out of the pot with a single rasping sound, before the soil landed on the dead flowerbed three floors below, with that same soft impact Hubert had heard before.

The leaves, more paper now than plant, instead hung in the air for the wind to do with as it pleased.

Hubert knocked lightly at the window pane by his head.

Bernadetta blinked, and to her credit did not jump much at all when she looked down to see him.

“Good morning,” said Hubert.

“Hi.”

She disappeared again, returning with yet another pot. This one she spilled even further to Hubert’s left, no doubt to avoid accidentally hitting him with dirt.

“I sent a letter with your groom, like you said I could,” she called down after that particular plant met the ground.

“Oh, good,” said Hubert, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Bernadetta retrieved yet another pot.

“You’ve got a lot of those,” he said.

“Twenty-seven.”

There was a lot more dirt and a lot less plant in this particular pot. Hubert wondered if it had once been one of the little fleshy carnivorous plants Bernadetta so delighted in.

“Are you going to be done with them all in time to have morning tea with the Count?”

“I can’t go to tea,” said Bernadetta, hefting the next pot rather viciously in her arms. “You know that, even if you don’t like thinking about it. If we want to-” Bernadetta blushed, looking around, as both she and Hubert realised together that they were shouting their plans out open windows. “Well, we need him in a good mood is the thing,” she finished.

Hubert tried to nod, only to be stymied by his ridiculous position half out the window.

“Right,” he said.

“I’ll be okay,” said Bernadetta, pausing in her ceaseless throwing for just a moment. “I’ve got to go through all my old things, anyway, or I’ll end up just passing out every time I come in here. It’s got… associations in my mind.”

“I see,” said Hubert.

More dirt came cascading down the walls.

“I’ll… get to it, then,” said Hubert.

“Good luck!” Bernie called, as he pulled the window shut.

Hubert ran his hands through his hair, before straightening his undershirt and setting about strapping on his most ostentatious jacket. He hadn’t known what he was expecting. Of course Bernadetta wouldn’t want to spend time with that man. And she was right in that they need him in a good mood, and that her presence would preclude that from happening.

Hubert swallowed at the memory of how Count Varley had looked at his daughter.

Hubert was no stranger to hatred. As he strapped an extra blade to his lower-back, he found himself intimately experiencing it. But there was just something so profoundly wrong at seeing an emotion of that kind turned to Lady Bernadetta. It punctured at a part of him he’d long thought calloused, had him bleeding a substance he did not want to see. It was well within her right for Bernadetta to refuse to attend today’s meeting. It made sense, it would be best for her wellbeing, too, and perhaps she would find something of use in her room while it was all going down.

These thought did not reassure Hubert.

He doubted he would feel reassured until this was all long behind him.

* * *

Varley’s personal quarters were not as sparsely decorated as his wife’s. A mishmash of hunting trophies, antique tapestries and obscure insignia shields covered the walls, while on pedestals and cupboards scattered in truly random ways about the room sat hunks of a dark something that Hubert could not identify, no magical signatures coming from them either.

“Ah, Count Vestra!”

Manfred von Varley rose from a winged armchair which stood in a bizarrely central position of the room to smile at Hubert.

If Ferdinand was here, he’d already be rearranging the damn place. But, of course, Ferdinand was not here.

“Thank you so much for inviting me to your rooms,” said Hubert, resolutely affixing a smile to his face. “You’ve a marvellous collection in here.”

The preserved head of a mountain wolf stared down at him, its glass eyes dull.

“Thank you,” said Varley, immediately returning to his prior seat and gesturing for Hubert to take a spot in one of the sofas that surrounded it. “However, those hunting trophies are more of a testament to taxidermists in the 30s than anyone else. My father hunted those, years ago. I’ve never been one for sport.”

Hubert made a perfunctory movement to one of the couches, but let himself hover near one of the marble pedestals that dotted the room. The lump of something that rested within the glass casing above it really did just look like some sort of rock.

“I must confess my ignorance-” Huber began, but the Count just chuckled, the sound nauseating in its genuine companionability. 

“Of course, a man of your birth would have had no reason to see that before,” said Varley, still smiling. “What you’re looking at is raw iron ore. Each of the ores in this room is the first such sample dug up by Varley officials in the sites of what are now our mines. Most of them are iron, but we’ve got a good deal of tin mines too. With our County so blessed with rivers, we’re in no short supply of sedimentary rock layers, but of course I won’t bore you with geology.”

“Colour me impressed,” said Hubert. “I knew Varley’s mines were an asset of the Empire, but I am embarrassed to admit I did not know their number. I can see now they vastly outperform my expectations.”

Hubert moved to another cabinet to avoid having to look the Count in the face again. Something about the fact that Varley actually knew something about the geology that made his mines possible put him on edge.

“Well, no need to get ahead of yourself,” said Varley, his voice still horribly cheerful. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk of outperforming once you actually see what they have produced.”

Hubert straightened, forcing himself to look away from a much more rust-coloured lump of ore, and coming to face his self-satisfied adversary.

“I do hope you will forgive the impertinence of my asking to see such records,” he said, keeping his voice low, the cowed servant of the Empire. “Please understand, I live to serve the Emperor, and all of her many whims.”

His throat tightened as his words betrayed his oldest friend, but Bernadetta was right. He needed this foul old man to think them both on the same side, and a common enemy was always the easiest way to achieve such comradery. Besides, he knew Edelgard, and she would not want to be praised by a man such as this.

“Of course, of course!” said the Count, waving a lazy hand. “It’s really no imposition, I certainly have nothing to hide.” With this, he let his eyes linger on Hubert for less than a beat.

He could not underestimate this man. Not everyone was like that fool, the late Duke Aegir, too focused on their goals to see the obstacles before them, or like those cowards Hevring and Bergliez, willing to switch sides at the toss of a coin to protect their own behinds. Some men were sharpened by their greed, not dulled by it.

Hubert should have learnt that lesson well.

“Besides,” continued the Count, fast enough that a man without Hubert’s training would have missed the pause, “I do get so few visitors out here in the mist and the mountains, it is a delight to have you. Even if you were conned into having to take my ridiculous daughter along with you.”

Hubert forced a laugh to match the Count’s, and felt himself slipping. How, of all the atrocities he had committed over the years, was this the hardest?

“Now, how about that tea I promised?”

Hubert relaxed, if only internally, at the thought of a stimulus to draw their conversation away from people he actually cared for, and made some silly courtier’s noise of approval. And in response, Count Varley leaned to the side, plucked a bell from his side table and rang it, harsh and hideous in Hubert’s assassin’s ears. But it was not just the pitch that set Hubert’s throat tightening. It was the look on Luka’s face as he came bursting into the parlour, the naked terror of someone who knew the punishment of being late far too intimately.

“What can I do for-"

“Don’t fucking run in my house,” snapped Varley, Luka clamming up immediately.

Hubert’s veins thrummed with the sheer speed of the blood rushing through them.

“Are you some sort of fucking child?”

Hubert remembered well the sound his father’s palm had made every time it connected with the face of a servant. He’d heard spies beg for mercy, soldiers’ screams choke on blood, but they were nothing compared to that sound. The sharp crack of a life shattering, the sound of someone’s only hope of safety being smashed against a marble mantlepiece, all for the crime of dropping a plate or not dusting enough or dusting at the wrong time or just daring to exist at too loud of a volume.

“Are you really that incompetent at your job that you have to go rushing around like an imbecile’s toddler-?”

“Just get the damn tea,” Hubert snapped.

Varley and Luka turned together, their movements an obscene mirror as they both started at Hubert.

Hubert loosened the knife strapped to his right wrist.

“Right you are, Vestra,” said the Count.

Slowly, he returned his face to Luka. To his endless credit, the young footman actually met that brimstone gaze, still in the half bow Varley had cut short.

“Get us the damn tea,” hissed Varley. “Do you think you can manage that without stumbling about like some sort of caffeine-addled jester?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Luka replied, and finished his bow. For good measure, he backed out of the room while bent, too, but Hubert could only tense further once he was gone.

Now it was his turn to face the Count’s wrath.

“I really am quite sorry about that, Vestra,” said Varley, rubbing his temples. “Hardly appropriate, in front of a guest. Really, the people around here may be bred for mining, but you can’t find anyone fit for service for _miles_ it seems.”

“My condolences,” said Hubert, because he really had no clue how to respond to that.

“Rest assured, I’ll deal with him in my own time,” Varley muttered.

“Please,” drawled Hubert, forcing as much malice into his voice as he could manage, “allow me.”

Varley raised an eyebrow at him, and Hubert gave him one of his slimiest smirks. How hard it was to keep his face from twitching, from revealing how it pained him to make such an expression at the misfortune of someone who did not actually deserve it. This whole experience was really going to suck the joy right out of hunting Lady Edelgard’s enemies.

“I believe you were well acquainted with my father?”

“Indeed, I was,” said Varley, still keeping a curious eye on Hubert.

“Then let us just say that I find myself eager to put some of his teachings into practice.”

Varley kept an eye on him for a split second longer before his face tore into a grin.

“I’m glad you came to visit, Vestra,” he said. “Adrestia’s been through more coups and upheavals in your lifetime than I care to comprehend. I’m glad there are still men like you in the world.”

Hubert gave a shallow bow, and a particularly painful, “You honour me, sir.”

What kind of man was Hubert von Vestra, anyway? This trip was muddying the waters far more than he had anticipated. He could not shake the terror in Luka’s eyes after his outburst. Though it may have been in his defence, could Hubert really wipe away that fear with a bribe after dinner?

Hubert swallowed. It was getting even more difficult.

Luka returned, carefully pushing a trolley laden with far more nonsense than a “morning tea” demanded, and flanked by two maids. _Two_ maids? Varley Manor only employed three. Though, then again, there wouldn’t be much for them to do now that the Countess was gone, was there? Hubert blinked forcefully, resetting his mind. There hadn’t been much for the Countess’s maids to do in _years_ , she hadn’t lived here. Only this bitter old man, with a staff of twelve to wait on his every whim, and be screamed at for everything.

“Thank you,” rasped Hubert as one of the maids handed him a cup full of watery tea.

He took a sip, and found himself thinking of dishwater. His eyes wandered over the array of foods the maids and Luka were unpacking onto the table. Little sandwiches, which would have been acceptable had half of them not featured egg salad. Pies with unmarked lids. Suspicious. Absolutely no sweets, which Hubert did not particularly care about, but the aesthetic of the setting certainly left something to be desired without the pop of colour from fruit or icing. Besides, knowing Bernadetta’s love of dessert, he could not help but take it as something of a snide attack.

He missed Ferdinand even more than he thought he had. It was getting cold nowadays, but the chill-swept gardens of Enbarr beckoned him with an intensity that brought on an ache when contrasted with this stuffy room and its poorly curated tea service and the creature that lurked in the chair opposite him.

Hubert, finally, took a seat.

“I know you might not be able to tell from the… blockiness of my home and the strength of my mines, but I do have something of a weakness for the finer things in life,” said the Count. “Like subtle tea.”

Hubert looked down at the under-steeped black tea in his hands. He couldn’t even tell what variety it was.

“Indeed?” he said. He looked around the room for the least-hideous thing, and settled on a rather bland tapestry. “Certainly you seem to have an eye for art.”

“Oh, quite,” replied Varley. “My wife seemed to find everything but the most severe ornaments to be vulgar and, well, look where that got her.”

Hubert feigned another sip of tea. An opening at last.

“I’ve seen some of her… choices around the Manor,” he said. “Despite their simplicity, she certainly seemed to have a penchant for scale. And in ebony and silver, too… I can’t imagine her demands were easy on the County coffers.”

The Count made an exasperated kind of hum, before giving Hubert a little chuckle.

“Good eye. Those things cost me and arm and a leg, and she had the nerve to get stroppy with me for keeping my apartments as the one bastion of taste.”

Hubert made a sympathetic noise of disproval. The room smelled strange, he was beginning to realise. A metallic undertaste that no doubt came from the ores, but overlaying it all was a kind of dead, floral scent of decay. It was nothing like any kind of poison, so he continued to nurse his “tea”, but it had him on edge regardless. It smelled like the kind of room someone had died in, though very long ago, buried beneath an age of mothballs and potpourri.

“Perhaps, then, it would be prudent to examine older records, too,” ventured Hubert. “To see how long certain drains on Varley’s wealth had been endured.” 

“Prudent indeed,” replied Varley, something like a smile on his mouth. “That’s what I always admired about you Vestras,” he continued, finally rising from his seat. “You never let jobs go half-done. Your father was much the same.”

A cold flush danced at the edge of Hubert’s face.

“Thank you, sir,” he managed. “Living up to my family’s legacy in service of the Empire has always been my only dream.”

“Oh, I daresay you’ve achieved it.” Hubert swivelled in his chair to find that he had somehow lost track of Varley, who now stood behind him. Hubert swallowed, did his best not to crane too far, the picture of a relaxed confidant. “Such a shame your father never got the chance to reach such heights of his own, before he was lost to us.”

“Indeed,: Hubert replied automatically. He allowed himself a deeper breath. Let Varley think he was discomposed at the thought of his father’s death. Let him think it was some great tragedy, and not a particularly well-planned Thursday afternoon. “But, I am afraid I disagree. I believed he accomplished some incredible things when he was alive. He was ever my role model.”

Twisted truths were always useful in situations like this, Hubert had found, but when it came to his father, he would always prefer to lie.

“Such a shame Her Majesty’s more… unscrupulous allies got to him before he could pledge allegiance to our cause the way the noble houses of Bergliez, Hevring and Varley could.”

The Count made a tight-lipped humming noise.

_Fuck!_ It was his wife who had aligned Varley to the coup, wasn’t it? And considering she put the old bastard under house arrest before doing so, chances were he wasn’t too happy with it. Well of course he fucking wasn’t he was a part of the Insurrection of the Seven, and not everyone was the kind of strategic coward that Bergliez and Hevring excelled at being.

_Fix this, Hubert_.

He wasn’t used to this. He only ever needed to get on people’s good side once, just long enough to stuff their staff full of spies or get access to their estate or lure them down into some dark, unseen space where “negotiations” could occur. He wasn’t the type to have to repair relationships, to have to _stay_ close to a mark.

“Truly a wonder that you were able to so support us, despite what you had suffered,” Hubert launched into saying, desperate to keep himself from babbling as fast as instinct told him to. “What you were, indeed, actively suffering. I cannot bear to think what would have happened to Her Majesty and her forces were we not granted such boons direct from Varley, and had to instead rely on the whims of one who would rather waste her time in the capital, chasing phantoms.”

Hubert did his best not to think of the late Countess’s contributions to perfecting Resonant Lightning, and all the battles won by that particular spell.

“I only wish my father had been able to gauge the situation as quickly as you had, before he was forced to pay for his caution.”

Varley emerged from behind Hubert’s seat with the sound of a cabinet door snapping closed. But he did not hold the records Hubert had been expecting. Instead he held a different tome, one which, despite everything, Hubert still recognised at a glance.

“Do you know what this is?” Varley asked. He kept the book in his hands as he returned to his isolated seat.

“Of course,” said Hubert, forcing a smile. “That’s the Book of Seiros-”

“The _Imperial_ Book of Seiros,” said Varley. “The official history says that it was given to Ionius I by Saint Seiros herself.”

“Indeed,” said Hubert, shifting forward to appear ever the entranced pupil. “It’s an artefact of immeasurable value-”

“Artefact?” said Varley, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose Her Majesty’s entourage would see it as such. A relic, of a bygone era.”

Hubert swallowed. Bernadetta hadn’t said anything of her father being particularly pious. But, of course, he could hardly expect her to know much of what went on inside his heart of hearts, if he even had one.

“But I see it as something else entirely.”

Varley snapped the book open, its ancient spine cracking like bone beneath cruel fingers and Hubert jolted. The last thing he cared about was anything deemed holy by that accursed Cult of Seiros, but the thought of treating an Imperial relic – of treating anything that old – as callously as Varley had set his blood pounding. This was a man unafraid of cruelty, and uncaring of any limits thereupon.

“This is a tool, Vestra,” said Varley, flipping the pages far too vigorously for Hubert’s comfort.

He had the sudden and distinct feeling that if any damage occurred to that book, it would somehow be his fault.

“All that talk of Saints and Goddesses, divine rites and the holiness of the relics… it’s all theatre,” he continued. “I know that as well as you do, as well as the Empress does.”

_Emperor_ , Hubert’s brain supplied automatically, though he stayed silent and let the madman before him speak.

“No one asks the nobility to actually _believe_ what they tell those beneath them, though perhaps that nuance was lost on those with more… tumultuous educations.”

Hubert clenched his throat if only because clenching anything else would be too much of a giveaway.

“The Emperors of Adrestia – the Empire itself – only stand because the people believe, because they _know_ , at least in their own minds, that it is the will of the Goddess, and that will can never be questioned. They can question the will of a man. Men can be killed. As can young girls. But a Goddess cannot. If you build a throne on the back of a Goddess, it will stand for a thousand years. You remove that holy foundation, however…” Varley snapped the Book shut. “Both the crown and the head that bears it stands unprotected.”

Hubert stared at him, blinking only to seem polite. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

“You’d do well to pay attention,” Varley said, his voice eerily level. “After all, I was the Minister for Religion, once.”

Oh.

_Oh!_

This was about power. Of course it fucking was. The bastard was afraid. Fucking hell, did he know how to put up a front when cornered. Hubert would have to remember that.

“Indeed,” said Hubert. He leant forward again, letting himself seem too eager, before ‘restraining’ himself back. “I had… actually intended to speak with you about that. It was… one of the reasons why I volunteered for this mission.”

Varley’s eyes were on him, quicker, clearer, than Hubert had first judged them to be.

“Volunteered?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, well…” said Hubert. He had no idea why he was defaulting to this strange, nearly childish persona, but something within him told him that Varley would be receptive to someone… malleable. “Her Majesty’s war council has been running things since the war itself, but she made it clear to us that she needed more than an assembly of generals to keep her new Empire running. And when she brought up the need to gauge the… receptiveness of the surviving members of the nobility toward the new regime, I immediately thought of you, and your experience.”

Varley leant back, drumming his fingers on the incomprehensibly old text in his lap.

“Did you?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Hubert.

Lying was _so_ much easier. Why had he even bothered trying to trick this wretched creature? Just spit venom in his face and watch him suffer the sting.

“I quite look forward to proving your service to the Empire in a monetary sense,” Hubert continued, “if only to see your return to Enbarr, where the value of your experience will no doubt become just as apparent to the Empire.”

“As do I,” said Varley, a smug grin sliding over his features. “You know, I did so fear you were a mindless lackey of the Empress-” _Emperor_. “-but I have so enjoyed working with you, Vestra. I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit to the Manor.”

Hubert inclined his head.

“It is an honour, sir.”

“Quite,” said Varley. “And if, in whatever mission reports she demands of you, Her Majesty asks for specific figures, feel free to make them up.”

The blood drained from Hubert’s face.

“I see no need to bother you with the tedium of record-analysis. Let’s treat this as a getaway, shall we?”

Hubert smiled, and moved to refill his now lukewarm teacup.

“It would be my pleasure.”

_Shit_.

* * *

Bernadetta lingered by the window, letting the chill of the steppe buffet her face. The cold really was good at keeping her alert. Not that she knew that when she actually lived here, when opening even a single window was a sacrilege incomprehensible. Her fingernails twitched in the dust on the windowsill. This would all be a lot easier if she could relax for five seconds. But even attempting to do so only reminded her of how impossible it had all been as a child.

Leaving the window open and the breeze jostling the curtains, Bernie made her way to her basin with steps more purposeful than she felt, and poured the entirety of her water jug into it. Water sloshed over the sides as she stuck her face in, soaking her hair and half her dress in her haste, but the water calmed almost immediately, leaving Bernadetta somewhere silent and cool. She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t breathe out. She had an urge, sudden and stupid, to breathe _in_ , to feel the cold stillness of the water where she needed it most, pressed in tight and soothing against her roiling stomach, her beating heart.

She didn’t, of course.

When her lungs ached from the pressure and her nose tickled from the need to inhale, she gently pulled her face from the water and stood, sopping wet, in the corner of her room.

She hadn’t thought to get a towel. That wouldn’t have mattered – content as she was to stand in her meditative state of dripping – if someone weren’t knocking at the door.

“Um!” cried Bernadetta, wiping at her face with just as wet sleeves. “Come in!”

Unbuttoning her sleeves to roll them up in an attempt to hide her dampness, Bernadetta looked over her shoulder as someone entered, a small tray in hand.

“Minister Vestra told me he would be spending the day attempting to get on the Count’s good side, so I hope you will forgive me for going against your earlier request to set a place for you at his table.”

It was the older footman Bernadetta had noticed last night, the one that looked so much like her father’s butler Johannes, had he been years older. Still hovering in her corner, Bernadetta found herself forgetting her dampness and instead watching him closely. The resemblance, now that she was looking for it, was uncanny.

“Of course,” he continued, “It’s not too late to bring an extra plate down to his parlour.”

“No, no,” said Bernadetta quickly. “Hubert knows what he’s doing. I’d hate to ruin his progress with my pettiness,” she said with a weak laugh.

“Of course,” said the footman again.

He busied himself with setting a place for Bernadetta on her desk, instead, and though eternal embarrassment burned low within her chest, Bernie couldn’t stop herself from circling around to look at him from a different angle. There was a splotchy birthmark at the base of his bald head, but that didn’t help identify him, because that same spot had always been covered by Johannes’ hair when she was a child. Was it possible she had completely misjudged his age, blinded by her own youth? But even so, there was no way someone could age so drastically after only six years, was there?

“My Lady?” the footman asked, and Bernie jumped at the realisation that he’d caught her staring.

“I…” she started. What was she supposed to say?

The footman smiled, genuine enough to hurt, and brushed some non-existent dust from his cuffs. Bernadetta could not say how many thousands of times she had seen that same movement growing up in these stagnant halls.

“Do I truly look so terrible?” he asked.

“Johan…” Bernadetta breathed.

She was stumbling forward, hands hovering unsure, as she longed to reach for the one person who had shown her kindness as a child, a man who had warned her of her father’s movements for the day and alerted her to when her mother was in a bad mood, who had treated her with respect she had never received before.

His fluffy brown hair was completely gone now, and his kind mouth now featured a strange twist and lines that, in hindsight, looked nothing like the ravages of age.

“What happened?”

She stopped herself an arm’s length from him, already fluttering with fear at the idea of approaching him at all, but she could not stop herself from peering deep into his eyes and seeing cloudiness where once was a lilac clarity, following the lines of his mouth to settle on a misaligned jaw.

“I could ask the same of you,” he said, voice tender. “I remember you such a slip of a thing. You’d turn sideways and disappear. I’d lose track of you and have a heart attack afraid that your father had gotten his hands on you, and turns out you’d crammed yourself into an airing closet because you didn’t want to read a romance novel in a room with windows. And now you return to us with the arms of a sniper and the words of a leader.” He smiled, his mouth migrating to the right of his face. “The war happened, Lady Bernadetta,” he said quietly. 

Bernadetta leant forward, drawing her hands closer to her chest in a vain attempt to keep from actually intruding any further.

“I thought… I hadn’t heard any reports of fighting around the manor…” she said. “Toward the mountains in attempts to gain Garreg Mach, sure, and of course The Great Bridge of Myrrdin is close by, but…”

“Rest assured, my soft hands never saw battle,” Johannes said. Something about his hand movement seemed stilted, aborted. As if he had thought to reach for her for a moment.

“Don’t tell me this was just _stress_ ,” gasped Bernadetta, though her father’s butler simply laughed.

“Could you imagine?” he said with a chuckle. “No, ah… your mother…” he trailed off, bowing low out of what seemed to be instinct. “My apologies. I should not speak ill of the dead.”

“Tell me,” said Bernadetta. And then, a second later, “If… If you want to, I mean.”

Johannes looked at her, as intently as she had searched his face before, looking for the changes the years between them had wrought.

“Your mother made incredible contributions to the war effort, specifically in the form of joint gambits only possible for large battalions,” he said eventually. “As you may expect, considering her expertise, most of these were in the form of group spells. However, she also had a distinct interest in the properties of the various minerals of the County when it came to near-magical interactions. She successfully developed a mixture of substances that, when ignited, would detonate to a significant but controllable extent.”

“We used that,” said Bernadetta. “We had these red barrels that we’d roll toward the enemy with a lit fuse, and it’d burn the very ground beneath them. I never really saw what it did to a person…”

Her eyes wandered over Johannes’ face, though she wondered at the lack of scar tissue. She’d seen burns before, and if someone had suffered enough to lose their hair, their scalp should not be so pale. Perhaps that birthmark she had seen was instead…

“Well, it doesn’t do this,” Johannes said, gently lifting his hand to his face. “Certainly, the chemicals that were actually deployed to the army were non-corrosive, hence your ability to transport them in simple barrels, but the Countess’ first few mixtures were… Less gentle, even when unignited.”

Bernadetta jolted. She had never excelled at geology, to her mother’s imminent disdain, but she had paid attention enough to know that there were certain areas of Varley where no mines were sunk, where no one dared till the soil due to poisons in the ground. No doubt her mother had catalogued them all in a neat table, with measurements for how long each took to eat through her beakers.

“She experimented on you?” Bernie gasped.

“No, no,” Johannes shook his head. “She was far too pragmatic to waste human resources like that. No I… simply learned the hard way why the Vestra Sorcery Engineers wear those masks.”

He rubbed a shaky hand over his bald head.

“Though I do wish she would have told me that water didn’t work.” He sighed, shaking his head with a laugh of all things. “Would you believe that you need milk, of all things, to neutralise the fumes from the southern vents? Didn’t figure that out until it dissolved enough tissue to dislocate my jaw.”

Bernadetta couldn’t stop herself, she reached out. Slowly, gently, with more than enough time for her once young caretaker to stop her. But he didn’t. He let her damp hands with too-bitten nails cup his chin, feel the knots of calcified muscle shift beneath her fingers, feel the jawbone jump up and a little to the right with his every breath in.

“When this is all over,” she said, “You can come to Enbarr. I’ll have the best healers on the case. I know some that are really good at, uh, tissue removal, while knitting the muscles in the area back together properly. I don’t know about your hair, but I’ll have everyone who knows anything working for you.”

Bernie blinked as she felt her eyes begin to sting.

“I have some powder for the pain in my travel kit,” she said after a moment. “It looks like it hurts to chew.”

Johannes looked at her, and Bernadetta’s heart ached with how he now had to look up, at the thought that she had finally surpassed him in height after years of longing to grasp at his coattails again and hide her face behind his back. With the same care that he showed all of her father’s stupid ore samples, he took her hands in his and slipped stiffly to his knees. As hesitantly as Bernadetta had approached him, he pressed his lips to the ring finger of her right hand, right where the signet ring of Varley sat on her father.

“A leader has finally returned to Varley.” 

Bernadetta yanked her hands back.

“Please don’t bow to me,” she gasped.

“I… I’m so sorry,” said Johannes, hanging his head even as he returned to his feet, faster than looked comfortable for him.

“No, I just…” Bernadetta rubbed her hands, Johannes’ care burning them white hot. “I need you, Johan. I cannot do this without you at my side. And if you put me on a pedestal… I’ll lose sight of you.”

Johannes relaxed, if only slightly, and offered her a tight smile. Though, perhaps, that was only his jawbone working against him.

“You really have become the woman I hoped you would,” he said, voice cutting straight to her heart despite the howl of the wind outside. “To think… all you have seen, and yet you stand strong…”

Bernadetta laughed, a little awkward.

“What else could I do?” she asked, still scratching at her hands. “I couldn’t… let Mortiz down.”

The two of them stood in silence for a moment, the wind playing with the hem of Bernadetta’s long nightgown.

“He would be so impressed,” Johannes said. “He’d think you the most impressive girl he’d ever met-”

“Please,” said Bernadetta, her throat raw with its tightness. “There no use talking about what he would have or could have thought. He’s dead.”

Johannes lowered his head again, nodding. Bernadetta licked her lips. It had only been a matter of time until thoughts of Moritz filled her head again, she supposed. He haunted Varley worse than she had, all the more so because he had never actually been allowed inside the Manor. Every corner was filled with the potential of a childhood memory that had never come to life; the silent laughter of children cut short. And in the shadows of every interaction she had with the people of Varley, with the Manor staff, with the non-noble inhabitants of every land of the world, Moritz lingered, his blood dripping into every word Bernadetta exchanged with those more vulnerable than her.

“Perhaps, after lunch, you could go for a ride,” Johannes said, after she had taken a while to breathe. He was always good at telling when she was thinking, and then when she was done. “Go see his tree.”

Bernadetta nodded, her fingers picking at themselves.

“…Yeah,” she said. “I guess it’s been years.”

“That’s the nice thing about trees,” said Johannes, stepping away from her desk to pour her a glass of water. “No matter how much time goes by, they’ll always be waiting for you in the same place.”

“Unless someone cuts them down,” Bernadetta whispered, watching him put the glass on the desk.

“That’s true,” said Johannes. “So it’s always nice when everyone can agree on which trees to protect.”

He smiled, and Bernadetta felt her heart fill with more emotions than she could count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me guys! This chapter was initially supposed to continue on into more events, but then I turned around and realised it was already nearly 9,000 words so I figured I'd stop here lol. 
> 
> Any and all comments are always welcome, including constructive criticism - I'd love to hear what you think! And as always feel free to say hi on either twitter or tumblr, I'm @commanderfreddy on both sites.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated **T** : _Depictions of anxiety attacks. (Bernadetta does not directly interact with her father in this chapter)_

Hubert stood in the meat-locker of the kitchens, trying to catch his breath. Morning tea _and_ lunch with that gargoyle had left him more exhausted than any battle ever could.

He wondered what Ferdinand was doing. As soon as they were reunited, he had to give him credit for his skills in diplomatic situations, because Hubert felt as if his bowels were about to cramp right out of his body after trying to maintain a pleasant and ignorant demeanour for _hours_. Fuck, he really just wanted to kill the bastard and be done with it. He knew _why_ he couldn’t – Edelgard and Ferdinand were right about the issue of legal precedent: it would be much harder to weed out the lingering corruption of the nobility if they didn’t have a specific method of investigation and trial.

But, really, the only thing convincing him to stay his hand was the fact that the only person who deserved to wield this particular axe was Bernadetta.

Hubert rubbed a hand down his face. It was hard to relish the cool darkness when he was surrounded by the smell of carcasses in various states of salting, but this was the best he could do for a hiding spot in such a spartan manor. He hoped Ferdinand would get his message soon. He leant his head against the cold stone wall. Silly thought. Even though a single messenger could move faster than the party of five he’d left Enbarr with, it’d still be something like two days before his letter reached Ferdinand. And then, even if he penned a reply immediately, another two days for it to reach Hubert.

Better than the week-and-a-half long delay that characterised writing to Dorothea and Petra in Brigid, but, well… He did not miss them the way he missed Ferdinand. There was no one anywhere in the world who could lift his mood like Ferdinand could, no one who could bring the fight back to his fists and the fire back to his heart. He was like a shot of pure adrenaline and even a little note from him would have been enough to chase the dark thoughts from the corners of Hubert’s mind.

Of course, he could not have that.

Instead, Hubert had a brief respite in a corner of the cellar stinking of pigs’ trotters and a list of problems that dwarfed his list of solutions by a thousand-fold. He slapped the stone before him just to feel the sting on his hand. Idiot. He’d given away far too much, he’d underestimated the beast that wore the title of Count despite knowing how terribly he had hurt Bernadetta and now he had no clue what the fuck to do. He’d lain the damage control on thick over lunch, and he was more confident than not that the Count now believed him to be a lacky loyal to the old Insurrection of the Seven looking to restore Manfred von Varley’s power, but… That didn’t solve the problem of how to get to his fucking records.

Well. They weren’t here in the meat locker, that much was for certain.

The old wooden door rattled as Hubert shoved it open, startling Mina the cook where she was resting with her feet up on a barrel.

“You, uh, you alright there, Minister?” she asked.

“Just peachy,” muttered Hubert, striding past her. And then stopped, realising something. “Just for the record, I didn’t touch any of the food in there,” he added. “If I want to poison something, I’ll let you know.”

The cook blinked.

“…Good to know,” she said.

“Collateral damage is not my style,” he said.

“I figured,” said the cook with an awkward nod.

“Just because I have to suck up to this wretched creature, doesn’t mean I’m going to actually put any of you in danger,” he snapped. He wasn’t quite sure where he was looking. “I can… There’s a difference between words and actions. Just because I say things when I’m in his company doesn’t mean I actually agree with them.”

“…Yeah,” said Mina.

Hubert wasn’t listening.

“It’s all for a final cause in the end. This is the best way. This is – as much as it doesn’t seem like it – the most _efficient_ way of getting him got, at least properly.” Hubert rubbed his face again. His bad eye was twitching beneath his bangs. “If I don’t go along with the things he says and smile when he snaps then so many more people will suffer. It’s not like I can go to every town in Fódlan and cut their leaders’ throats while they sleep.”

Someone was standing in front of him, but he could only see their shoes. How long had he been staring at the floor? He looked up, and found himself almost at the stairs, at the complete other end of the kitchen. Hubert swallowed, staring at the older man in front of him. He had to tie this all up before he went completely mad.

“I’m sure Lady Bernadetta would like to hear of your meeting with the Count,” the footman before him said with a smile.

“Right,” said Hubert. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

“I saw her in room not too long ago,” said the footman. His smile was kind, if a little misaligned, as if he’d been punched in the jaw many years ago. “Though she did say she was thinking of going out riding this afternoon. You should ask the grooms for directions to Moritz’s Tree if you don’t find her upstairs.”

Hubert stood still for a moment, eyes lingering on the man in front of him. He spoke in the tones of a life-long noble staffer, a direct contrast to everyone else who worked here, all of whom sounded like they’d much rather be somewhere else. Hubert committed his bald head and twisted mouth to memory.

“Thank you,” he said. And then, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

The footman smiled.

“I’m Johannes,” he said. “But I’m sure you have plenty more important things to remember.”

Hubert’s stomach heaved with nausea as he recalled the attitudes he’d blithely encouraged from Varley over lunch, the look of raw fear in Luka’s eyes as Hubert had sided with the Count, had snapped in his face like a dog.

“Trust me,” said Hubert, “I consider you, and your service, to be of vital importance.”

Johannes’ instincts proved to be right a few minutes later when Hubert found Bernadetta’s room empty. He didn’t even consider searching for her elsewhere in the Manor – Bernadetta had moved as if on rails ever since they had arrived, defaulting to returning to her room at even the slightest incident. If she wasn’t there, she had to be in the grounds or beyond. At least the two Varley grooms were forthcoming in telling him where she had gone – he wouldn’t have sent his own groom on his letter-run had he known that they’d be using the stables again, but at the same time… he couldn’t deny that he was glad to have his fastest rider bearing his letter to Ferdinand.

Hubert shook his head clear as he mounted the horse he’d ridden in on. He had to focus.

“You and one of the footmen inside,” he said to the groom leading his horse, “you both mentioned Lady Bernadetta riding to a place called Mortiz’s Tree. I haven’t seen that on my maps of the county.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be on anything official,” said his groom. “It’s just…” He looked to his co-worker, as if wondering what to say. “It’s a local thing, I guess. No reason for it to be on a map. If you know it, then you know where it is. And if you don’t know it, then you don’t know where it is. So… I guess you’ll be wanting directions, then?”

“Indeed,” said Hubert. Should he appear more sheepish? Wait, no, he wasn’t with Varley anymore, he didn’t need to police his emotions so much. Or should he? He needed the staff to like him, after all, if they were to trust him with their intel.

Why, why, _why_ couldn’t Ferdinand have taken his place?

“It’s pretty easy,” said the groom. “You just gotta keep following the road east, until you get to the crossroads where the northern branch leads up to the village, and the south-east branch sort of like cuts through a hill, so the ground on either side of the road is much higher than the road itself. Follow that road, the hill one, not the village one, and then you’ll end up on a knoll overlooking the Strom River. That’s where Mortiz’s Tree is. Lady Bernadetta will be… somewhere near there, I guess,” he finished awkwardly.

“Thank you,” said Hubert, as sincerely as he could manage. “I wish I could give you some estimate of when I’ll be back so you can plan your break, but I’ll follow Lady Bernadetta’s lead on that, I’m afraid.”

“Uh,” said the groom. “That’s fine… Really. Not like the Count goes riding much, so we’re hardly overworked here.”

“Well,” said Hubert, feeling awkward yet again. “I commend you on your efficiency, then.”

With that he dug in his heels and let his horse canter off, hoping his compliment didn’t sound as ridiculous to the grooms as it did in his own ears.

The baleful steppe of Varley, resplendent in its many shades of brown and grey, was not as distasteful to Hubert as it might have been to others. Growing up in Enbarr with only the occasional visit to his family’s cramped, cliffside estate, such rolling open spaces were a wonder in their own right, even if the ever-present fog brought the visibility in tight. The landscape was eerie, seeming to Hubert to be almost unfinished, as his horse bore him away from Varley Manor. The village where the majority of the staff had grown up was aways to the northeast and over the crest of a hill rising behind the Manor, rendering the steppe bare of anything except the gravel of the road and the endless undulations of spindly grass.

No wonder it was a tree that served as a local landmark. The steppe was completely devoid of plant life except for the grass. Not even a shrub passed him by.

Hubert licked his lips, tightening his grip on the reins. In his own experience, he had always found the crowded and shadowy spaces of over-wrought halls to be the ideal locations for instilling fear, but Varley County was fostering within him an appreciation for the powers of emptiness. Between the stark white rectangles of Varley Manor and the deserted stretches of grassland, Hubert could not shake an itch along his shoulder blades. The feeling of someone watching him, the knowledge that there was nowhere to hide, everything out and open on display and yet completely incomprehensible at the same time…

He jolted hard enough in the saddle to spur a wave of cold sweat as a flicker of movement danced in the corner of his vision. The knife ever slipped up his sleeve was in his palm, slick with sweat, in an instant. His breathing did not relax upon his realisation that he was looking at a goat. It did not bother to return his gaze.

Hubert’s horse carried him ever on down the gravel road and Hubert did his best to fight the temptation to turn back and stare at the goat. Was there a farm closer than he realised? Or was it just common practice to let goats wandered where they pleased? Maybe Varley was blessed with herds of wild goats.

Hubert shook his head, kicked his heels into the flank of his horse. What was wrong with him? No use dwelling on nothingness. No use getting lost in the pathways of his own head. Hubert breathed in, slow and deep, savouring the sting of the frigid wind and the unpleasant drip against his face as his hair grew soggy in the fog. Gravel kicked up beneath the horse’s hooves as he bore down the road. Maybe if he could imbue this trip with a little of the urgency that had characterised his service in the war, he could attain some of the clarity of mind he had known then. When the world narrowed to the point of his lance and the coalescing magic in his hand. His ears listening for nothing but Her Majesty’s orders and the quiet but cutting warnings of the professor. When his goals had been clear, and the path to them obvious.

A fork in the road still managed to catch him by surprise despite the openness of the terrain. One moment he was bearing blankly along gentle hills, the next he was cutting across a crossroads, the brief circle of gravel behind him before he could blink. Out on a horse, his open combat training overrode his espionage skills, and he found himself twisting in the saddle to look over his shoulder at what he had missed. In the centre of the swathe of gravel stood a wooden pillar box-looking structure, whose many arms identified it as the signpost the groom had alerted him to. More noteworthy, however, was the duo of young women he had just sped past, both of whom were now staring at him with wide eyes and craned necks.

Ah.

It seems he wouldn’t have to wait for one of the staff to sneak a day off for word of his arrival to spread through the village. Well. Nothing he could do about that, he supposed. Surely the populace knowing of his mere presence wasn’t going to change anything. He’d already stressed the importance of stealth to the Manor staff, but perhaps he should speak with them again, individually, remind them that their discretion extended to staying mum around their friends and family, too. Or was that too much? And he still had to meet up with Luka and properly compensate him for today’s ordeal.

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that Hubert almost missed the horse grazing at the base of the approaching hill. The sight of the bright white creature startled him, more than it should have, and sent him yanking on his own reins with a ferocity that would have horrified Ferdinand. For what it was worth, the well-bred mares of the left hand of the Emperor barely registered his surprise, his own slowing to a stop while the white horse watched them through a mouthful of grass. That was undoubtedly the horse Bernadetta had ridden in on, saddled with her personal purple tack. Sliding from his saddle to inspect her, Hubert noted with relief that she was tethered to a nearly-buried metal hoop in the ground. He hadn’t even realised he was afraid that she had been abandoned until he saw that she wasn’t. He really needed to get his head on straight.

The horsey smell of hay and leather and sweat would always invariably remind him of Ferdinand, but as he fought to avoid imagining how his partner would scoff at his equestrian demeanour, a different conversation with Ferdinand came to the fore of his mind. His heart racing, limbs trembling, seeking solace in the still armoured arms of a man who wasn’t yet his partner. Both of them covered in blood, unsure of how to breathe, Ferdinand had told him to describe things he saw and felt around him. The feel of Ferdinand’s pauldrons digging into his cheek, the still scattered horse tack in the corner of the command tent, the strategy maps that had all turned out to be useless, it all slowly coalesced into a world that was easier to digest. Nothing had happened between them after that battle, but perhaps that in and of itself had been a tipping point. A moment where vulnerability stopped being weakness, stopped meaning anything except the raw emotional reality of the moment.

And Hubert found himself doing it again, at the foot of the rise summited no doubt by Mortiz’s Tree. Touching a hand to his horse’s flank just to feel the warmth beneath the smooth hair, searching the ground for all the different kinds of weeds he knew, letting his eyes chase every birdcall, looking for familiar animals and finding none. And yet, all the same, he felt his heart begin to slow. He breathed, soft and steady, letting the cold wind of the steppe rinse him out.

 _That was how Bernadetta felt every day, as a child, with only the scantest help_.

Hubert swallowed, and headed up the hill.

There was, as promised, a single tree at the top of the crest. And stretching out in front of it was a short slab of land that abruptly fell away to reveal the Strom River, narrow but fast and slate grey beneath the similarly coloured sky. Hubert eyed the tree warily. He wished he had gotten some explanation as to why such a simple-looking pear tree featured in the minds of locals so heavily. If folklore said that it was haunted or a gateway to the faerie realm or other such bullshit, that may be an indicator of an actual curse on the tree or somewhere nearby; perhaps remnants of a dark spell gone wrong years ago. Was that the fate of the titular Moritz? Hubert let his hands open to the traces of magic in the air. Even through thick cotton and the nerve damage that had turned his flesh white and his veins black, he could tell there was absolutely nothing there. Not even trace signatures from the tree, remnants of its years of growth. Though, even as Hubert looked, he noticed that while the pear tree stood tall and wide, it didn’t exactly seem old. No dead branches, no fallen logs.

“Hubert?”

He whipped around, but managed to restrain himself from releasing the catch of his sleeve knife.

“Bernadetta,” he said, offering her a slight bow.

She looked well. Normal. At the very least, she didn’t look like she’d come out here to bawl her eyes out or do something reckless.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, drawing her arms close to her chest.

“Nothing,” said Hubert. “Did you... anticipate something going wrong?”

“No, I…” her mouth twitched, and her eyes darted to the tree. “Just, why’d you come all the way out here? I hope I didn’t worry you or anything.”

“Oh,” said Hubert. “No, no you didn’t worry me,” he lied. “I apologise for intruding on your privacy. This truly is a lovely spot,” he finished, gesturing awkwardly at nothing.

Bernadetta kept staring at him, brow creased.

“I merely wanted to report on my meeting with the Count as soon as possible.”

Unfortunately, that did nothing to ease her expression.

“It was that bad, huh?” she asked.

“There’s been a slight change of plan-”

“Oh, don’t say it like that!” she cried, grabbing at her own riding jacket. “That’s the worst possible way to phrase things!

“It’s okay,” said Hubert, her stress sending his own hackles rising in empathy. “I know we have the fortitude to-”

“Just tell me what happened!”

Right. Not everyone had Lady Edelgard’s tolerance for the build up to bad news. Though, perhaps that was a good thing, considering the circumstances that had given rise to her fortitude.

“He refused to give me access to the records,” said Hubert.

Bernadetta blinked, froze, and thawed all in the space of a second. And then she was silent for a second or two more.

“You asked to see them outright?”

That was _not_ a question Hubert had been anticipating, but one nonetheless shrewd enough to bring a strange burst of pride to his heart.

“No, don’t worry,” he said with a deliberately shadowed smile, “I’m not that terrible at interfacing with humans.”

Bernadetta stepped forward just so she could give him a little punch to the arm.

“Quit that,” she mumbled.

Hubert did as she asked and continued in his best facsimile of a calm, normal man.

“I continued on our earlier tact of implying that it was the Emperor’s expectation that we examine his records, following a suitable period of small talk, and after I outright lied to him and said I wanted to give him back the Minister of Religion seat – Goddess knows what he’d do with it when the Goddess herself lies in a shallow grave – he said I was free to make up whatever figures I liked, that he wouldn’t ‘ _burden_ ’ me with having to dig through the county accounts.”

The crease in Bernadetta’s brow was back, but it seemed more incredulous than anything.

“Hubert,” she said, her voice embarrassingly quiet in contrast to Hubert’s. “Did you… mess up an espionage mission because you were being _too nice_?”

Hubert stared at Bernadetta.

Bernadetta stared at Hubert.

He crossed his arms.

“I think it’s a little more complicated than that.”

And Bernadetta von Varley’s laughter echoed across the steppe, quiet but clear, and flowing unceasing, like a glass charm startled by the wind.

“You did!” she crowed. “You tried to be diplomatic and shot all the way into… sycophantic!”

She laughed again, this time with a little snort thrown in.

“Oh Goddess, Hubert von Vestra and Bernadetta von Varley on a mission that begins and ends with diplomacy!” Her laugh was teetering into something more unstable. “I’d ask who’s idea this was, but it was mine, _obviously_ , because no one in the _actual_ government would make a mistake like that!”

“Bernadetta,” said Hubert quietly. Nervously.

“You _failed_ , which means it’s up to _me_ , of all people!” she cried, and now it was clear she wasn’t really laughing anymore. Her voice cracked as she continued, “Just look at what happened the _last_ time I tried to be nice to someone!”

For some reason, she gestured to the tree. Her hands were shaking, more than shaking, they seemed to be trying to make some kind of gesture that Bernadetta wouldn’t let herself finish.

“I didn’t fail, and this isn’t all up to you,” Hubert cut in quickly, remembering her earlier impatience. “We just need to rethink-”

“By what measure did we not fail?” Bernadetta’s hands clung to her own sleeves now, jittery as if she was getting a caffeine rush from her own hysteria.

“We aren’t dead,” said Hubert.

He fixed Bernadetta with a stare and thankfully his intimidation skills hadn’t quite left him yet. Her gaze latched onto his, and for a moment they stood in stasis, nothing else reaching them but for the manufactured intensity of Hubert’s gaze. He exaggerated his breathing – not the sound, but the motion. Shoulders rising and falling, and soon Bernadetta was harmonising with him, the steady motion slowing her down.

“We aren’t dead,” Bernadetta repeated. Her voice was back to normal, but it broke Hubert’s heart to realise just how little fight that meant was left in it. “How is that… anything?” she asked.

“There were many times that was all Edelgard and I could say for ourselves,” said Hubert.

“But I’m not Edelgard,” said Bernadetta, straining forward. “No matter how much I want to be.”

“Of course,” said Hubert. “But you are Bernadetta von Varley, and so I have just as much faith in you.” He licked his lips. “I am not relying on you to fix everything, or even anything. But I know that you will be able to move past this, you will be able to secure the evidence we need from your father, no matter how many different tactics we have to take. You aren’t done yet, and I don’t believe you will be for a long, long time yet.”

Bernadetta drew her shoulders up tight around her face and then let them fall with a long, loud sigh.

“Maybe I just need to sit down for a bit,” she mumbled.

“An excellent idea,” said Hubert, and immediately sat down where he stood, like a great bat falling from the sky.

Bernadetta eyed him, worried once more, flicked her gaze to Mortiz’s Tree and kept it there for a disconcerting amount of time before she gingerly lowered herself to the ground, too. For a second, Hubert considered asking her about the significance of the tree, but then he recalled how truly afraid of what she saw as a demonic influence in him back at Garreg Mach, and restrained himself. If the townsfolk thought there was something evil in the tree, that would be the last thing to bring up around Bernadetta’s slow, deliberate breathing. Of course, if she was afraid of the tree, that didn’t explain why she had come out here of her own free will. Unless she rationalised it the way she had in bringing Hubert – the only thing that could frighten her father was something that frightened her more than him. What a fine army they made, Hubert von Vestra and a pear tree.

That was mean. He ought to say something to get her mind off everything.

“You want to be like Edelgard?” he blurted, and even the long steppe grass seemed to turn and stare at him.

Bernadetta hugged her knees tighter to her chest.

“I know it’s stupid, okay?” she said.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Hubert. “I was just… surprised.”

“Why, because I’m so bad at being like her?”

“ _No_ ,” said Hubert, glaring at her. It had no effect. “I just meant because you both have such different strengths and skills. It seems strange to try and adopt the other’s when you already complement each other so well.”

Bernadetta squeezed her whole body and then released, keeping her eyes on the grass.

“I don’t know,” she said after a while. “Who _wouldn’t_ want to be like Edelgard? You take one look at her and everything feels better. I mean, it took me a while to stop being scared of her, but she was also one of the only people to not baby me. She’s… honest. Even when it’s hard. She made it clear my fear was getting in the way of any potential friendship we could have and it didn’t feel good to hear, but she was right, and I think the fact that she could be so blunt with me helped me be a little less afraid of everyone, because I’d already had someone I was afraid of say something negative and there were no bad consequences, there were only _good_ consequences. So what else was there to be afraid of?”

Hubert watched her pluck blades of grass around her legs and send them scattering in the wind.

“Is that something you want to be like?” he asked, “Or is it just something you just like about her?”

Bernadetta frowned.

“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” asked Hubert.

Bernadetta huffed a loud breath and sprinkled some of her grass on the hem of Hubert’s cape.

“It’s like you and Ferdinand,” she said after a pause.

Hubert’s eyebrows shot up.

“…Oh?” he said, only because he had no idea where this was going. “How so?”

“You’re opposites,” said Bernadetta. “But not just in how you fill in each other’s flaws or anything. It’s like… well, for example, your diplomacy skills.”

“The ones you just derided?” Hubert couldn’t resist asking.

“Yup,” said Bernadetta, and Hubert snorted. “Obviously Ferdinand is better at diplomacy, which is why he’s the Prime Minister and you’re Hubert, but we don’t just give Ferdinand all the nice-guy jobs and give you all the mean-guy jobs. When the two of you are working on the same thing together, or even just at the same event, you get better at diplomacy, Hubert, just by being around Ferdinand. And when he works with you on scary stuff, you bring out his more serious side and he becomes a better tactician, instead of just being a commander.” Bernadetta returned her eyes to where she was still pulling up grass. “That’s what I want. To be more like her _and_ be her opposite.”

“Like a magnet,” said Hubert at the first image that popped into his head.

“What?” asked Bernadetta.

“How magnets are polarised,” said Hubert, and now it was his turn to fiddle with the grass. “It’s the ends that are the same that push each other away, and the ends that are opposite that attract each other.”

Hubert looked down. Why did he have to use the word “attract”? There was a reason he and Ferdinand hadn’t told anyone except Edelgard about their relationship, and most of that reason was how mortifying it was to talk about that topic in any capacity. He hoped Bernadetta hadn’t caught anything in his voice, but she was being very quiet. Maybe she was just thinking. That was probably it. For his own sanity, he would pretend it was.

Hubert looked out ahead to where the ground dropped away to the Strom River. From his position on the ground, he couldn’t see the water, but he wasn’t thinking of the view.

 _It’s like you and Ferdinand_.

Could she know something? No, her comments were far too innocent. Well, it was Bernadetta. Maybe she did know something, and thought it was none of her business. Would that be an issue, then? Hubert couldn’t tell. If she knew and she had a problem with it, she was certainly keeping quiet – which, again, Bernadetta – but he’d just let down their mission with her father, so she was well and truly entitled to some judgement on his personal life. Perhaps.

At the very least, she’d said enough to make Hubert wonder about her thoughts for Edelgard… But that was cruel. Bernadetta probably had such lovely thoughts about all of her friends. Excepting Hubert, who had let her down.

“I am getting my hands on those records for you, one way or another,” he announced.

“Guess our breather’s over, then,” said Bernadetta.

Hubert chewed at his lip.

“Ah, sorry,” he said. “Perhaps that was a little-”

“No, it’s okay,” said Bernadetta, jumping to her feet with an agility found only in Garreg Mach training. “It’s nice, y’know. Your loyalty. I don’t really know anyone else like you when it comes to that.”

 _Loyalty_? Could his dedication be called that? It felt wrong somehow, like a betrayal of his fealty to Edelgard and her cause. But he’d talked about this with Ferdinand, hadn’t he? Of the many kinds of bond a man could have, to his ruler, to his traumatised best friend, to his lover, his comrades, and maybe to someone who relied on him so plainly and obviously that it hurt.

“Besides,” continued Bernadetta, “You did manage something of a break, talking of normal stuff like friends, instead of overthrowing a government for like five minutes, and that’s enough for me.”

“If you’d like to keep relaxing, I’d hate to keep-”

“Nah,” said Bernadetta. She shook her shoulders and then her whole body out with a deep breath, something like a wet dog. “I’d rather overthrow a government.”

* * *

Bernadetta kept quiet about anything serious as they rode back to the manor. Mostly she just filled him in on Johannes, if only because it was nice to actually know something more than him for once. Still, she could not keep her hands from twisting in the reins. She had to believe Hubert that there was _something_ they could do to get them back on track. She wasn’t about to suggest that Hubert try and push his luck with the Count and start asking for them again, and she certainly wasn’t going to try and have him ingratiate himself with the old man any further. Somehow he’d succeeded in that, and they were all going to be paying for it. She gulped cold air through her lungs, focused on the feel of her horse moving beneath her, and turned her thoughts elsewhere.

“Hubert?” she called ahead, not too far from the manor.

Hubert slowed his horse so that soon they were trotting abreast and looked to her to continue.

“Did he happen to show you where the records were, physically?” asked Bernadetta. “Or… mention their location, at all?”

“Afraid not,” replied Hubert. “He did a lot of prop work with the Imperial Book of Seiros to spook me, but I don’t know if he keeps his other valuable books in that damn parlour or somewhere else. Rest assured, had I known where it all was, I would have just stolen them tonight.”

“I figured,” sighed Bernadetta. “Still, he’s a pretty deep sleeper when he isn’t… in a mood, so if we _could_ find them…”

Hubert grinned at her, all teeth.

“Now there’s a plan our skills are more suited to.”

“The stealing, yeah,” said Bernadetta, feeling a hot little flare of rebellion at the words, “But the needle-in-a-haystack bit where we have to _find_ them first?”

Hubert shrugged.

“I don’t mind doing a bit of prowling in the night hours, sticking my nose where it isn’t wanted.”

Bernadetta shook her head immediately, a funny little noise escaping her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Logically I know you’re good at that – Seiros knows the two of us spooked each other enough times wandering around Garreg Mach at night – but, um…” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Sorry. My mother used to like to wander at night, so I, uh, never let myself develop it as a habit. Being out of bed at night. Even though it doesn’t make sense anymore, it scares me, you being seen out of bed by unsympathetic eyes.”

There was quiet for a moment, and Bernadetta realised they just a minute down the path from the Varley stables.

“I see,” said Hubert, and Bernadetta found herself too exhausted to care if he thought her silly for it. “Well, I fear I may have roused some of his suspicions anyway, so I planned to keep myself in my rooms for tonight anyway. It couldn’t hurt to do some more _social_ reconnaissance in the meantime.”

“I suppose,” said Bernadetta. “Everyone on staff is already on our side, not that it’s hard to convince anyone to work against my father, so it’s not like there’s a risk…” She dropped one hand from the reigns just to nibble on her thumb. “I just can’t imagine that anyone would know anything. But, then again, maybe that’s just me being scared of him again.” She huffed a loud sigh, biting down on her nail hard enough to break it off. “It’s hard to tell what’s me responding to actual obstacles, and what’s just… y’know. The same feeling I always have that something’s gonna go wrong. Certainly, it’s always worse around him.”

Hubert nodded, silent as they arrived and returned their horses to the care of the grooms. As they entered to the manor, Hubert held open the door for Bernadetta and she found her back straightening ever-so-slightly. It felt nice, if a little silly, to be the kind of person Hubert von Vestra found important. But at that, her thoughts returned to their earlier conversation about Edelgard and her stomach turned to stone.

What had that even been about? Hubert had been trying to get at something, she could tell. But was it so odd to want to emulate Edelgard? Even if that… wasn’t the entire beginning and end of her thoughts for her?

“Since you consider it to be of little risk,” Hubert continued out of nowhere, as if there hadn’t been a 15 minute break in conversation that left Bernadetta’s head reeling back for the thread of the topic, “May I have your permission to pursue that line of thought?”

“Um,” said Bernadetta. “You hardly need my permission.”

“Nonetheless, I desire your approval,” Hubert replied immediately. “Your input as well, if you have any.”

Bernadetta couldn’t help but smile to herself, her face warming at his words.

“Thank you,” she said, quiet enough that she barely heard it herself. “Please, go ahead.”

“Excellent,” said Hubert as they came to the bottom of the Manor’s central staircase. “I owe someone a conversation – and plenty more besides – so I shall begin there.”

“I’ll get to work, too,” Bernadetta blurted. Hubert, to his infinite credit, did his best to not look _too_ surprised. “Johannes…” she began, and then clarity alighted upon her. “Oh! Johannes! He’s the only person my father had been able to stomach for any extended period of time, if there’s anyone-”

Hubert had put his hand to his mouth in what may have looked like a casual gesture to outsiders, but, coupled with his intense gaze, was clearly a plea for Bernadetta to be quiet. She gaped for a moment, her stomach cold.

“Certainly it would be a delight for you to reconnect with someone you have known for so long,” Hubert continued as if nothing had happened. Bernadetta squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

He stepped closer, held his hand out. Only instinct had Bernadetta placing her own in his palm, the motion born of years trailing after Hubert and Edelgard. To her extreme surprise and embarrassment, Hubert bent into a low bow and brushed his lips across her knuckles – the perfect picture of the minor lord paying homage to the Countess-in-waiting at all those balls Bernadetta should have attended as a child, had she been someone less obnoxious than Bernadetta von Varley.

She took a breath as Hubert straightened. Perhaps… “Someone less obnoxious _in her father’s eyes_ ” should be the phrasing, instead.

“I look forward to seeing you at dinner, Lady Bernadetta.”

He sounded so genuine that Bernadetta almost found herself looking forward to the meal, too, despite the gargoyle that would be seated at the head of the table. She bowed just as low to him – which was only fair, he was a Count himself, even if he hated the title and preferred to be only the Minister of the Imperial Household, which was more impressive _anyway_ because he’d actually had to work for that – and turned to the stairs just as Hubert slipped away toward the kitchens.

Where should she start looking for Johannes? It was mid-afternoon by now, could he possibly be waiting on her father? Would he want afternoon tea after having a morning tea? She couldn’t remember, and her heard sang at the idea. She wondered what far more interesting and delightful fact had taken the place of that particular entry in her mental encyclopaedia of her father’s foibles. Hopefully it was something about her carnivorous plants – he’d always hated those. Well, he’d got what he wanted regarding them at least, hadn’t he? Nothing left but a mound of dirt beneath her window and the vague hope of more to replace them in the future.

Somewhere behind her came the gentle knocking of a fist against one of her mother’s glass-topped hall tables.

“Johannes!” she cried upon turning to find the butler behind her.

“I hope that was a suitable way of attaining your attention without startling you,” said Johannes. “When I heard that you had returned, I had considered a little bell, but… well, you know how your father feels about cats.”

Bernadetta snorted at the thought of this lifelong aide with a bell about his neck, and he seemed to brighten upon seeing her smile.

“Probably for the best,” said Bernadetta. “I’m not too great a fan of high-pitched noises.”

“Noted,” said Johannes with a firm nod.

Still, despite his constant kindness, something about his incredibly timely appearance itched at Bernadetta. Varley Manor was large, and Johannes certainly hadn’t stayed on for this long by shirking his duties, so the fact that he managed to be in the exact right place mere moments after Bernadetta realised she should speak with him… But at the same time, if she couldn’t trust Johannes, who could she trust?

“May I ask you something?” she asked before her thoughts could get too tangled.

“Always, my lady,” he replied.

Bernadetta swallowed.

“Were you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

Somehow, his bluntness was a relief. At least she knew for sure, now.

“My father asked you to, right?” she continued. Instead of filling with dread, her stomach had gotten light, airy. Almost as if it were about to float away.

“He did,” said Johannes. “You know I wouldn’t still be here unless I did all he asked.”

“Have you reported to him about some of my conversations already?”

“Yes.”

There was something so horribly earnest about Johannes’ face. As if he was trying to convey something more than what he was saying, but Bernadetta hardly had the willpower to decode subtext at the moment.

“Have you-” her voice caught, rasped against the edges of her throat. “Have you told him the reason why I’m here?”

“My Lady, it’s no secret that you’re looking for information-”

“Johan,” Bernadetta interrupted, voice squeezed tight. “Please.”

The butler stood tall, gaze unwavering, as he replied.

“I did. I told him you were here to remove him from his seat.”

Bernadetta hardly needed to hear it.

“Right,” she said, if only because nothing else would have sounded right. “I see.”

She could hear him take a shallow breath, watch the bob of his throat as he swallowed. He seemed to be waiting for something, but where this conversation led, Bernadetta had no idea.

When he finally spoke, the softness of it was enough to set her heart breaking.

“What will you do with me?” he asked.

Bernadetta closed her eyes. She didn’t know. This was… she didn’t want to think of it as ‘Hubert business’ because what Hubert did with traitors was not something she wanted to dwell on. Besides, they still needed Johannes. Or, at least, there was still a way he could help them. And more than that, she didn’t want to see him hurt. It made sense, the way he acted, what he felt he had to do. Goddess knows he’d made enough sacrifices working in Varley Manor, it had to be second nature by now, setting his actual thoughts to the wayside to keep himself safe, keep sending money to his daughter, keep alive to the next day. It broke her heart, just enough to remind her of how soft she was, really.

Maybe this was Edelgard business, then, instead of Hubert. 

“That depends,” Bernadetta replied after a moment.

“I will help you,” Johannes said, immediately. “I cannot… stop reporting to him, he’d… Well, whatever he judged reasonable to do, he’d do it to me on the spot, and I am not such a fool that I cannot admit that the thought scares me. More than most anything else in the world.”

“What about the thought of your daughter, of all the people like her, having to work for someone like him?”

Bernadetta hated herself for saying it before the words were even fully formed, but she couldn’t take them back. She had been blunt, callous, but she knew in her heart that it was an effective thing to say, even though it wasn’t exactly pleasant. Edelgard business, indeed.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Johannes said. “And I support you, I do. I did my best to keep from him any details, but… I’m not a good liar. I’ve never tried to be, and I know I’m too much of a coward to start trying now.”

“I know,” said Bernadetta, throat tight. She had probably just agreed to some insult somewhere in there, but it was getting hard to keep track. “I don’t blame you. This isn’t something you… This isn’t something _anyone_ should have to worry about. For what it’s worth, I can’t see you as a bad person. Not in the slightest.”

“Then… you will let me go?”

He looked so hopeful. As if he had been genuinely afraid that she wouldn’t.

“I have one more question.” Bernadetta licked her lips. “When you said you had worried about me… Did you mean it?” 

“Oh, Bernadetta.”

She bowed in on herself, eyes squeezing shut and hands drawn across her chest as she shrunk, away from Johannes’ tender words, away from the cold light of the afternoon on marble. Away from the reality that had wrought this misery. He had called her a leader – and had it only been hours ago? It felt like years. Had he only been flattering her, then, attempting to gain her trust? Or had he truly been looking to her as someone to lead him out of this constant loop of underhanded plays that kept him under the Count’s thumb, unable to gain the trust of anyone else at the Manor, fellow staff or noble visitor alike?

But all she could think of was how he kept his distance. Oh, he reassured her that he had indeed missed her, that he had worried so earnestly and for so long that she had not survived the war, and it his voice trembled so much more than his usual calm speech that Bernadetta had to believe him. But all she wanted was one of those steady hands on her shoulder, the comforting arm of someone who had seen worse and could reassure her that, somehow, things would get better. But he did not reach for her. He was her father’s butler before he was anything else. He wasn’t her poor, deceased uncle who had only appeared in her life once or twice, just long enough to give her a taste of what it was like to have an adult’s approval. He wasn’t Professor Byleth, with their quiet, listening gaze and gentle scarred hands. He wasn’t loud-laughing Alois or slow-blooming Hubert or the vague shape of a father she had dreamed of so many times as a child. He was Johannes Eicher, and she was Bernadetta von Varley, like it or not.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say, eyes finally lifting from the floor. “I’m sorry that I…”

“No, please,” said Johannes, more desperate than Bernadetta had expected. “I am the one who must apologise.”

She closed her eyes, breathed deep.

“Thank you,” she said again, voice thick. “For apologising. But, as I said, I… I shouldn’t have expected you to throw away your safety. You’re a butler, not a spy, and I have to remember that. I… I want to keep you safe, too, you know.”

“Thank you,” Johannes murmured. He sounded exhausted.

“You should, um, continue with your duties as normal. I’m the one who needs to take on all the… stuff.” Bernadetta rubbed a knuckle to her forehead. “But if you could let me know what you do tell him, just so I know…”

“I shall,” said Johannes. “You have my word. I’ll also do my best to keep as many specifics from him as I can manage.”

“Take care of yourself,” said Bernadetta. “You… No one knows his moods like you do. You should trust yourself, and if you need to tell him something to keep his hands off you, do it.” She took a deep breath. “I got to have five years of a break from him. You didn’t.”

He nodded, mouth twitching as if he wanted to say something. But no words came.

“I do have… one more request of you, though,” she added.

“You need to know where the records are kept,” Johannes said.

“I do,” said Bernadetta. “Hubert… missed his chance to have father show them to him of his own will. Well, maybe ‘overshot’ his chance is more like it.”

“They’re in the library study,” said Johannes. “I’ve seen them, I can promise that they’re there, on his shelves. The room will be locked, though…”

“Locks can’t hold me,” said Bernadetta, and then instantly felt ridiculous, despite the growing fire of hope in her heart. “I can get in there tonight.”

“No!” Johannes stepped forward, eyes wide.

Bernadetta hated the spark of suspicion of his words, but she couldn’t help it. Was he going to warn the Count?

“I waited on him as he took lunch, his mind is going to be on Hubert’s request to see those records for a while,” Johannes continued. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent the night in the study, or if he inspected it in the morning. Stay your hand, and spend tomorrow distracting him so that the study will be unattended _tomorrow_ night, while he chases after phantoms.”

Bernadetta’s heart swelled.

“I can do that,” she breathed. “Can you feed him false information?”

“Only if you tell me what to say,” Johannes warned.

Bernadetta nodded, eager.

“I’ll talk to Hubert, we’ll coach you. Or, he will. He understands these things. Um, for now, if father asks, you should tell him that we have abandoned the plans about the records completely. Act like Hubert’s glad he doesn’t have to look at them and can make up his own numbers. Tell him we’re thinking of focusing on flattering him, instead. I mean, Hubert kind of sold himself to that path, so he can’t complain…”

“Understood,” said Johannes. 

Bernadetta smiled at him, the weight lifting from her heart.

“We can still do this,” she said, more to herself than Johannes. “It’s not over yet. I promise, you won’t have to worry about spying on your friends or keeping secrets or learn how to lie. I’ll get you free, all of you.”

Johannes watched her for a moment, something infinitely sad in his eyes. And that spark of suspicion in the back of Bernadetta’s mind made itself known once again. It would probably remain there until the Count was ousted, but, perhaps, she could live with that. There was no way she could force Johannes to prove himself more than he had. It wasn’t fair to expect immaculate devotion from a man who had never wanted to be anything more than a helping hand, and a provider to his family.

“I’ll talk to Hubert,” she said. “He’s the one who’ll be better at creating specifics for you to feed the Count.”

“I see,” said Johannes. “I trust your judgement, of course. I hardly know the man.”

Bernadetta looked away, scratching her forearm.

“Still, I must ask,” continued Johannes, “…Really?”

Bernadetta’s brow furrowed.

“Really what?” she asked.

Johannes sighed.

“I’m sorry, that was impertinent of me. I fear the catharsis of confessing may have loosened my tongue.”

“No, really,” said Bernadetta. “I want you to be able to speak freely around me. I… We should trust each other.” That felt even worse, but it was what she wanted, even if it wouldn’t be easy to get.

Johannes smiled, genuinely touched at last.

“Thank you, Lady Bernadetta,” he said. “I suppose I feel even worse, now, considering you have found someone to trust your heart with and the first thing I do is question his suitability.”

 _Someone to trust your heart with_? Bernadetta’s brow creased ever so slightly once more. That was an odd way to phrase-

Oh no.

She screwed her eyes shut.

Oh _no_.

Her cheeks had to be bright red already. There was no _way_ Johannes thought that she and Hubert… That she… and _Hubert_ …

She let out a noise like a little squawk, her head completely devoid of any way to explain herself. Did she even want to? Explain herself properly, that is – she hardly understood herself, herself. But surely she couldn’t let Johannes think that she _and Hubert_ …

“I am sorry, dear,” Johannes said, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I don’t know why I thought to assume anything about your personal tastes after knowing you to keep such thoughts so close to your chest, but I cannot deny that the two of you seem well at ease with each other. And if you trust him, that is enough for me, just as I trust you.”

Well, that was reassuring, after their previous discussion. But now Joahnnes was making his embarrassed farewells, and Bernadetta still didn’t know how to explain to him that she wasn’t… Certainly not with _Hubert_ of all people. Another little squawk rose and died in her throat as Johannes straightened from his bow and slipped into a door that Bernadetta had thought only a hall closet.

She clamped one hand over her eyes and the other over her mouth as she dared to let out the tiniest muffled scream.

Great. Because this wasn’t complicated enough.

She took a deep breath, brushed dirt from her riding coat and straightened her back. No, she could do this. One step up the stairs, and then another, her face burning all the while. She had the information she needed, and perhaps even more besides. Knowing what she did about her father’s expectations of Johannes, she could plan ahead, make sure they didn’t reveal anything too important to him, keep him safe from her father’s insistent interrogations. She breathed deep again, faltering on the landing. Now, more than anything else, she needed to speak to Hubert. He’d know what to do.

* * *

“Really,” insisted Luka. “You don’t need to go to all this trouble. You’ve been… more generous than I could ever ask.”

“As long as you’re sure,” muttered Hubert. He slipped his pocketbook back into his riding jacket and fixed the young footman with a concerned stare. “I wouldn’t send one of my own agents into a situation like that without a briefing, back-up and leave of service afterwards, and you don’t even have any training.”

“Johannes has been giving me etiquette lessons…”

Hubert sighed.

“Not that kind of-”

“Excuse me?”

Hubert turned to the kitchen stairs to see one of the maids he had seen wait on the Count earlier standing by with an expectant face and a piece of paper in her hands. Good, he should reimburse her, too.

“Sorry, sir, Lady Bernadetta just asked me to give you a message,” she said, stepping forward.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Sorry,” she said, looking away. “I can’t read.”

“Ah,” said Hubert. “Well, thank you very much for your troubles.”

And upon taking the folded piece of paper from her hands, he pressed a banknote into her palm in reply, taking his leave up the stairs even as the maid called out to him in confusion.

“Yeah, he’s been like that. Probably guilt, or something,” he could hear Luka tell her before the kitchen door clunked shut.

Hubert kept his breathing steady as he returned to the rooms he had been given, doing his best to clear his mind. The little note was sealed with wax and had nothing written on the outside. It was enough to have him wondering if the choice of an illiterate maid was deliberate. Maybe he should teach Bernadetta a basic cypher… Though, after whatever that morning tea had been, he wouldn’t put it past the Count to be familiar with some simple cryptography of his own. There were too many damned unkowns under this roof.

He tore the note open as soon as he’d finished his cursory sweep of his rooms – he was impatient, not imbecilic – and found himself facing Bernadetta’s customary too many paragraphs. Hubert sat down to read it, but within words he found himself standing. And then pacing. And then folding and unfolding and re-folding the note over and over as he tried to make sense of it. And then, finally he sat down again.

Great.

What the hell were they going to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry for the unexpected month-long pause, I know I said I didn't want to commit to an update schedule but I would have liked to have this up earlier. But, to be frank, I've kind of been having the worst time of my life recently lmao! I'm not gonna drag down the mood here in the fuckin author's notes lol but if you've ever wanted to tip me or whatever for my work, it would be really appreciated right now - check out the link in my twitter bio [@commanderfreddy](https://twitter.com/commanderfreddy) to contribute directly or maybe consider getting a copy of the magazine I got published in, linked in my pinned. I've also got a new short story coming out soon in a dark fantasy anthology so expect me to plug the shit outta that too lol. But soonest of all I've got uni starting back up in a week so I gotta get back on that Master's Degree grind as well as the never ending cavalcade of personal bullshit I've been slogging through recently, so if there's another long pause in updates for this fic, it hasn't been abandoned, it's just Tough Out Here.
> 
> Thanks so much for continuing to read this guys, and as always I really appreciate any comments or criticisms you may have.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to sorta break kayfabe here before letting you get into the chapter, but I just wanted to mention that in the time between now and the last chapter, the Cindered Shadows DLC came out, and I'm sure you know that there's more supports with Bernie that expand on her backstory. I started planning this fic way, _way_ before those new developments came out and now... a lot of what I have planned is no longer canon-compliant. So, if you're really attached to the Bernie lore as expanded on in the DLC, that's awesome, I'm glad you got new content that you enjoy, I just want you to think about whether you're willing to continue with this story knowing it's not going to be compatible with that lore, and is instead a bunch of original stuff written by Some Random Guy. If you don't want to keep reading something that contradicts canon, I totally get it, I pretty much only read canon-compliant stuff myself, and it's why I'm making this note in the first place.  
> For everyone else, if you don't mind mild canon divergence or if you never cared about Cindered Shadows or if you can't afford DLC, I'm going to do something I don't really have much experience in doing, and ask you to trust me. 
> 
> This chapter is rated **M:** _Bernadetta directly interacts with her father in this chapter. References to physical abuse, including that which was discussed in Bernadetta's B support with Byleth. As a reminder, there is not and will never be any sexual abuse in this story, however Bernadetta’s abuse by her father was specifically to make her a “good wife”, so the concepts of marriage (and, from there, sex and romance) are tied to his abuse in her mind, and this association is discussed._

In the hours between sending her note and descending for dinner, Bernadetta set about making herself look as immaculate as possible. No more falling asleep by accident, no more forgetting to change out of her riding gear, no more tangled hair and tea-stained blouses. The underclothes that had been left in her rooms for years may not have fitted her anymore – by the stars had she _grown_ – but there were a few over-gowns that still looked just right when paired with the underdresses and petticoats Bernadetta had brought from Enbarr, including one featuring the Varley family crest over her breastbone. A little obvious, perhaps, but, well…

If her father wanted to know what she was up to, then by the Goddess, he was going to know what she was up to.

To finish her dinner look, however, she found herself turning to a locked compartment of her trunk and pulling out two small hairclips. Identical, one for each side of her head. Two little horns, more like the nubs of a baby goat than the great curling ramshorns that adorned Edelgard’s headdress, but the resemblance was still there, at least in her own heart. Maybe it was presumptuous. Certainly, she would never dare wear such a thing in Enbarr, or – Goddess forbid – around Edelgard herself. But the thought of carrying even a scrap of Edelgard’s mantle along with her was enough to square her shoulders, set her meeting her own gaze in the mirror.

Bernadetta licked her lips and descended the spiral staircase.

Hubert was waiting for her, of course. She’d mentioned how their joint entrance to their first dinner had bolstered her spirits in that memo she’d sent with Maisy, but it was nonetheless relieving to see him there, intimidating as ever in a fresh black coat and too-shiny boots.

He nodded at her arrival, a smile in his eyes if not on his lips, and offered her his arm as he had before. But, of course, this wasn’t going to be the slow and graceful parade of the night preceding.

“Thank you for your prompt communication,” he said. “But there was something at the bottom of your note,” he continued, and Bernadetta felt the mortification of earlier return in a great wave. “I know you must have crossed it out for a reason, but I saw the letter J, and I must ask, is there something else I should know about… him?”

Bernadetta shook her head, hoping she didn’t look too desperate.

“No, no, I just… kind of get carried away when I write stuff,” she said. “I was thinking about our conversation and so I remembered some of the more personal stuff we talked about – just! You know, memories and things and nostalgia and all that,” she gave an awkward laugh. “I suppose I started to get carried away in reporting about things that don’t actually matter.”

She swallowed hard, praying Hubert bought that. If he ever found out about Johannes’ _assumption_ about the two of them, Bernadetta’s embarrassment would be enough to burn a hole right through the floor. Why she had thought it a good idea to bring it up in the letter, she had no idea. Probably just that same silly, sad impulse that had her constantly trying to over-explain herself in attempts to avoid… anything, really.

“I understand,” said Hubert, and his smile seemed genuine. Though that rather made her feel worse, considering she was lying to him.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, just to have something else to talk about. “Of… my proposal for how we shall continue?”

She wasn’t built for all this talking around a subject. Well, maybe she was adept at waffling on without getting to the point, but not deliberately. When she wanted to communicate something, she wanted it to be clear. The last thing she wanted was to be misinterpreted – like Johannes about-

She screwed her eyes shut.

“Your insight seems quite reasonable,” Hubert replied, thankfully not mentioning the shade of magenta Bernadetta had to be by then. “Especially regarding the need for caution. Though I have to wonder how we can best accomplish the goals for tomorrow.”

She nodded stiffly. She’d passed on Johannes’ advice that they should spend tomorrow distracting the Count, misleading him somehow, so that he didn’t think to guard his library office the same way he no doubt would tonight.

“Maybe something useful will come to light at dinner,” Bernadetta offered quietly.

“Perhaps,” said Hubert. “Of course, we can always reconvene afterwards, to-”

“No thanks!” squeaked Bernadetta.

Hubert turned to look at her, though he never broke his stride. She didn’t meet his gaze. Goddess, there was nothing more she wanted than to speak freely with Hubert, face-to-face, in the privacy of _somewhere_ that wasn’t the middle of these horrible empty halls. But after what Johannes had thought was going on between them, the idea of anyone seeing her be alone with Hubert made her stomach turn.

It wasn’t fair. He was her _friend_ , she trusted him more than anyone else, but the sort of things people imagined men and women getting up to behind closed doors… The fact that anyone would picture _Bernadetta_ being with a man like that… She swallowed harshly, and knew she wouldn’t be able to eat much.

“What’s wrong?”

Hubert was so quiet, his mouth so unmoving, it was as if he had breathed the words.

Bernadetta couldn’t take it.

“There was something else Johannes said,” she whispered in reply. “I… I don’t think we should-”

But the dining room door was upon them, and Hubert’s hand had returned to his lips.

“Later,” he breathed to her, but it was the opposite of reassuring.

Later, he would talk to her later, and he would make sure they were alone and somewhere private to keep her safe, because he was her _friend_ , but nobody else would see it like that, everybody else wanted to see Bernadetta von Varley with a husband, with a man, under a man-

The door creaked open and Bernadetta took the chance to suck in a deep breath. She could panic later. But right now, she couldn’t let her father see any of it. It would all only get worse if her father saw her tremble. She clenched her fist in the crook of Hubert’s arm, opened her eyes, and let herself be led forward.

 _No_ , something whispered in her mind. A voice strong and steady, but with an undercurrent of deepest emotion. Her fist loosened and her fingers gripped Hubert’s bicep firmer. Her steps lengthened, she took strides of her own, walking alongside him instead of being dragged along. The little horns on her head pressed hard against her skull, and Edelgard’s strength came to her heart.

This was going to be difficult. It would remain difficult until her father was led before a magistrate and tried for his crimes. But that did not mean Bernadetta had to just close her eyes and let it all happen to her. She still had her own hand to play, whatever it may be. So when Hubert pulled her chair out for her, she nodded to him, and said with a voice that sounded more like the Emperor’s than her own,

“Thank you.”

Out the corner of her eye, she saw her father take a deep drink from his cup. But why just the corner of her eye? What more could he too to her that he hadn’t already? How much worse could she feel? Slowly, like one of those unnerving mechanical dolls from Dagda, Bernadetta’s head turned so she was looking at her father dead-on. He was drinking from one of her mother’s cups, a hollowed-out square of marble whose walls were so thin they were translucent. Something thick and dark dwelled in that cup. Probably port, though it looked almost like blood. A strange, giddy smile came to Bernadetta’s face. No matter how hard he tried to intimidate her or Hubert, the two of them would always know the taste of blood better than him.

The cup lowered from his lips and his eyes met hers.

“Did you hit your fucking head?” Count Varley snapped.

Bernadetta was buzzing. Something kind of like the energy that overtook her during battle was upon her, and just like in the thick of a fight, her fears were retreating in the wake of an eagerness to get this all over with.

“No,” she replied. And then, because he couldn’t stop her, “Why? Is something wrong?”

Varley stared at her, eyes blazing and disgust just as evident on his face as ever, but there was something strangely hesitant about him. Sure, it was the kind of hesitation people usually showed her carnivorous plants or the massive insects that nested on them, but his shoulders were angled away and his eyes flicked over her face as if looking for something. This was not the same toad who sat in this very seat and yelled at her to be silent without even blinking. She had thrown him off, if only slightly.

Just how far could she push him?

“Hubert was kind enough to accompany me for a ride this afternoon,” she continued after the most stagnant pause of her life.

She looked over to Hubert, to see him looking the same as ever, but with his gaze fixed very firmly to her. Ah. Perhaps she should have discussed this… tactic with him. Well, perhaps she should have discussed a lot of damn things, but that horse had sailed or whatever the metaphor was – there was only the Now, and whatever action she could manage to take. 

“He was quite complimentary of the countryside.”

Her head kept turning slowly, the way it had when she first sat down, between Hubert and her father. Like she was on rails.

To his eternal credit, Hubert somehow stepped in to the place she had set for him in this most bizarre of conversations.

“Yes, the Varley lands are truly a wonder,” said Hubert. “Some may see the cloud-cover as gloomy, but growing up in the cramped spaces of House Vestra, the rolling hills of your estate are truly a glory to behold.”

“I see,” said the Count.

He sounded just as snidely confident as ever, but Bernadetta was getting the distinct feeling that all three of them were on the edge of something. Or was that just her, teetering on a cliffside she couldn’t see?

“Of course,” continued her father, “An enterprising young man such as yourself would never be content with merely the narrow confines of your father’s hand-me-downs, would you?”

Bernadetta stared at him, not bothering to clear her expression of the naked curiosity in her heart. That had to mean something. She tried to look back on Hubert’s recap of his disastrous morning tea, to see if the Count had presumed Hubert was gunning for his seat or something, but she couldn’t really remember. Her whole brain was exhausted, a muddle of mistake and emotion.

“Of course,” Hubert echoed.

He seemed completely at ease, but he was Hubert, who lived only in the uncomfortable spaces in the world and was at his most genuine when he was pacing Bernadetta’s room and tugging at his bangs. Something was definitely going on. But, naturally, that only made her think of Johannes’ veiled insinuations, which set her stomach cramping.

When was the food coming out, anyway?

“It is my duty to the Empire,” Hubert was saying, but Bernadetta had completely lost the thread of conversation. “The role of the nobility-”

She tuned Hubert out. Once he started saying stuff like that, it was obvious he didn’t mean a word of it and it was just his attempts to keep the Count on his side. Goddess, why _were_ they doing this anyway? All this pandering to a horrid old man, and for what? Dedication to due process? To _justice_? There was no justice – no amount of sentencing could ever bring back Bernadetta’s childhood, or her teen years, or, for that matter, all those hours upon hours she spent as a supposed adult suffering because of how he had forced her brain to work. Her mother was dead and she’d never been strong enough to even approach her as something like an equal because this man, this…

She looked at him.

She could muster no insult worse than his own name.

Manfred von Varley had ruined everything for her, and now, even if she killed him right then and there, it was still going to take the same amount of work to crawl her way out of this hole. There was no magic button that could make all of this better. So what was the harm in making all of it worse?

Her eyes locked on his marble cube cup. It would be so easy to reach out, pry his dirty fingers from it and slam the rock into his temple. Into his nose, his eyes, his teeth, until his face was nothing but a bloody hole, and nobody would be able to recall what it looked like. That would be all he was reduced to. Just the target of Lady Bernadetta von Varley’s revenge.

“Don’t you think, Bernadetta?”

Hubert’s voice reached her as if from above the surface of a lake she floated beneath. Echoing, distant.

“Yes, naturally,” she replied immediately.

Her own voice sounded wrong. She licked her lips, tried to convey to Hubert through her eyes that she’d gotten lost.

 _Give me a hand_.

But that phrase just conjured in her minds images of what Johannes had thought was happening. The sort of images that had haunted her all throughout her father’s… treatment of her. Preparing her to be the perfect wife, silent and unmoving and willing to take anything a man wanted from her.

A hissing gasp escaped her mouth. She prayed to any gods she hadn’t killed that her father hadn’t heard it.

“Something is wrong with you,” the Count snapped, “And moreso than usual.”

No, _no_. What had she done? What stupid lump of her worthless brain had thought that she could handle making things worse? She wasn’t like Hubert, able to thrive on other people’s disconcertion. She wasn’t even like Edelgard, instigating conflict to get it over with before it had a chance to fester. She had just been _weird_. She wasn’t moving right, she wasn’t breathing right, and she sure as hell wasn’t speaking right.

“I fear this is my fault,” Hubert stepped in. “Earlier, during our ride, I made a request of Lady Bernadetta that she was not able to grant, as the permission is truly only yours to give, and she has been rather upset that she has not been able to provide what I wish.”

There was now a more than fifty per cent likelihood that Bernadetta was going to throw up, and the servants arriving bearing plates of sticky marinated beef were not helping. She did her best to smile at Oskar as he put her plate before her. She probably looked like a ghoul.

“And what might that request be?” Count Varley asked.

Bernadetta tried to distract herself from whatever awful thing was about to happen next by shovelling a forkful of the beef into her mouth, and almost gagged at the intensity of it. The overabundance of cloves burned her mouth as the syrupy sauce only served to weld her already burning throat even tighter shut.

“I would like to take this opportunity in visiting the lands of Varley to better get to know the ins and outs of its industry,” Hubert said.

The banality of it was like a balm to Bernadetta’s roiling stomach.

“Seeing your ore samples today really caught my attention,” he continued. “Getting a chance to see the various facets of the Varley metalsmithing machine would really add colour to my reports to the Emperor. And, of course, she would be most pleased to hear a firsthand account of how you are contributing to the rebuilding effort. “

Bernadetta breathed out slow. She hadn’t known what she was expecting, but this was… manageable. Comprehendible. Certainly leagues easier to understand than anything that had come out of her mouth all evening. And it gave Hubert a chance to investigate the working conditions of the people of Varley, too! No wonder he had an official position in the court, and she was just…

“Must you insist on _eating_ like that?” Varley spat at her. “You look like a pig that rolled through a cosmetics shipment.”

Bernadetta didn’t even wear makeup. He just hated her eyes, her mother’s eyes. Looked too close to her haircolour, he said, made her look as if she’d gone overboard with eyeshadow. The idiot probably didn’t even know what eyeshadow looked like.

She put more beef in her mouth.

Varley slammed his cup down, marble against ebony like a thundercrack.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Bernie did her best to replicate her on-rails turn of earlier, but she was shaking. Something _was_ wrong, he was right about that much. The afternoon had affected her worse than she had expected, and it wasn’t even the fact that Johannes had been spying on her. It was just his little comment at the end there that had filled her thoughts with fears she hadn’t even realised she still had. Somehow being in the damn army had involved less… expectations than her childhood home had, and just that thought was enough to have the food in her mouth turning to dust.

She couldn’t deal with this.

“So?” she snapped, voice cracking.

Varley moved so fast that her dizzy mind could barely comprehend what she was seeing. His whole face took on a kind of blank, flat look, horrifying in its emptiness, as his fist tightened around the marble cup and lifted it from the table, his elbow drawing back-

Her body took over from her brain. The ghosts of a thousand dodged arrows lifted her from her seat and sent her diving for the floor, clenching and shifting to minimise the size of her silhouette. If she dove directly under his feet, it would be harder for him to reach her, the momentum of his swing cut by the way he would have to shift to actually hit her. She didn’t know these facts so much as she felt them, as she had seen them in action and felt the pain that ignoring them would bring.

But there was no impact sound, no second crack of marble against ebony. Nor, thank Seiros, the crack of marble against bone. There was only Bernadetta pressed to the ground, the sound of her own breath furious in her ears as absolutely nothing happened.

And then laughter. That horrible wheezing gasp, like a fish flailing on the wharf, like the last breaths of a dying man. She hadn’t heard that laugh in years, and yet it fit back in her mind like a key in a lock, unleashing the floodgates of shame. She was 17 again, 15 again, 12, 9, 5, a newborn, an infant, powerless before this man and the iron grip he would always have over her instincts. He didn’t even need to hit her to hurt her, that’s how weak she was, how small…

How _filthy_ of a creature he must be to turn on someone like her.

Bernadetta didn’t get to be a mounted archer by having stiff knees, so she pushed herself off the ground with ease, smoothing her skirts with one long motion. She could see that Hubert was on his feet, but thankfully he hadn’t drawn a weapon. More than anything, he looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure of what to do next.

She took a shallow breath, clenched her fists, and looked to her still laughing father instead.

“I must commend you on your frugality, father.” Getting her voice out through the tightness of her throat was like trying to flush a brick down a privy. “Such an elegant solution, serving as your own jester.”

 _Now leave as fast as you can without running_.

And before if she could see if her father had gotten the insult, if it had instead only made him laugh harder at her, she turned and strode from the dining room with what little dignity she had left.

Up to her room, slamming the door behind her. Shove a chair under the door and lock the world out. No, pull the chair away and demand the world see her! Open the curtains and then slam them back shut when she caught a glimpse of her reflected eye. Pull off this stupid overgown she’d outgrown when she was 16, but no, it was getting tangled on something on her head, something pointed and-

Oh. Her horns.

She turned to her vanity mirror and felt tears well as she caught sight of herself. There was sauce at the corners of her mouth and tears in her eyes, her hair tangled and sweaty, but worst of all, one of her little clip-on horns had come loose and now dangled off the side of her hair like a child’s discarded toy. Her lip trembled and her sight of the mirror disappeared in a fog of tears.

_So you’re just going to cry now?_

“Yes!” she sobbed to no one, and dropped to the floor.

Her shoulder hit the carpet and her knees came snaking up into the foetal position. She dragged her overgown off once and for all, only sobbing louder as it snagged on her one remaining horn and tore it from her hair. She wadded up the stupid thing – wearing the Varley family coat of arms on her breast, what a stupid fucking idea – and tossed it somewhere, the horn tangled within it. It flopped only a couple of centimetres away and her heart ached at the pitifulness of it all.

She sobbed, loud and snotty as she rocked back and forth on the floor. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going right. Her arms came around to circle her knees, pull them tight to her chest. That always felt better, but for some reason that thought just made her howl louder. She couldn’t even have an actual person to hold her as she wept, she had to hold herself, rock herself to sleep like some pathetic little infant that even the orphanage wouldn’t take.

_Get over yourself! You had so many opportunities, you were raised with both your parents, and yet you compare yourself to orphans? What would Dorothea think of you?_

She bit down on her lip to try and swallow the sobs, but it didn’t work, the sadness instead building to a hiccoughing mess. She couldn’t even be properly abandoned, she had been blessed to have both her parents survive until she was an adult, but they just hated her.

And was it any surprise?

She couldn’t get anything right, went diving for cover when her father raised his drink to his lips, couldn’t hold it together to act like a normal person for one dinner, couldn’t even gently correct an old friend’s assumption and instead had to have a fucking _breakdown_ over a perfectly reasonable assumption-

Her whole body twitched at the memory of what Johannes had thought. She dug her nails into the skin of her calves and sobbed when it only hurt. Why wasn’t there anyone there to hold her? What did other people do that she couldn’t get right, what was the magic Thing she needed to do so that someone would love her and hold her close and stroke her hair and say she did well and they were glad she was alive?

Edelgard’s face came to mind and she jolted again.

“I’m sorry!” she cried.

How dare she think of Edelgard like that? The Emperor was her friend, no doubt she would be disgusted that Bernadetta von Varley of all damn people wanted her to…

Wanted her, in any capacity. In any way she could get, as a friend, as a leader, as a lover, as the most amazing person she had ever met… as the ghost of advice hiding in little hairclips.

Bernie buried her face in her bent knees, clenched her whole body tight. She shook, and it didn’t feel any better when she relaxed her muscles, or when she clenched them again.

“Help,” she whispered to no one. The tears returned, a horrible, hot wave. “Please.”

There was a noise at the door and her limbs sprang apart, leaping into a crouching spider position like a cornered animal as the door swung open.

“Bernadetta,” Hubert gasped.

Bernadetta shook, did her best to keep her eyes on him, to not look entirely as if she was falling apart. Something sang in the air, a vaguely familiar noise at an irritatingly high pitch, as the light from the hallway became distorted. Her heart beat faster. Was she dying? Had she finally cried too much, and now her body was refusing to carry on?

And then Hubert was crouching over her, a soft tingling occupying the space between his palm and her cheek. A Heal spell. Her despair melted to confusion, before her heart broke yet again as she realised he must have thought she’d hurt herself. That it was incomprehensible to anyone that she could be in so much pain just from the emotions that threatened to burst her chest open. He was right, it was ridiculous. She was being cruel to people who were genuinely in pain by shedding so many tears for herself when nothing was really wrong, when there were so many more people Hubert could be helping with his scant abilities in Faith.

“I’m…” She gulped a breath. “I’m not…”

“Sorry,” Hubert replied, pulling his hand back, “Am I too close?”

“No!”

The shout tore from her throat like her heart being pulled from her chest and, propelled only by the sheer force of her emotions, she launched herself at Hubert. Her arms grabbed his neck, her whole body launching from the ground as she tangled herself in a hug that was more painful than anything else, too many legs and elbows as she chased desperately for the comfort her father had never given her, had never even thought she was capable of needing. Hubert seemed to be thrown off his feet mentally as well as literally, his ass hitting the carpet and his hands remaining hovering in the air as the Heal spell flickered and died. She was hurting him, she was holding him too tight and too long and too close and everyone would get the wrong idea, maybe even _he_ would get the wrong idea, but though she cared – she cared so much she thought the fear would boil her alive – she couldn’t move. So desperate to be held it didn’t matter if it was in shackles, it didn’t matter if the whole world ended the second her forced her off him, threw her to the ground like she deserved. Just this one moment of artificial comfort, and she would pay for it for the rest of her life.

She sobbed, loud and messy against his collar. His poor coat, all filthy beneath her face.

And there was a strange sensation at her back, like the weight of someone staring at her from afar. Its tendrils spread and its pressure increased, and Bernadetta could not force herself to accept the most obvious explanation, that Hubert was hugging her back. Not even as he held her closer, let his head relax against her shoulder in turn. It did not sink in until she realised her breathing had slowed, harmonising with his. She should have cried harder, rejoiced in his acceptance. Instead she simply hovered in a strange state she had never before experienced.

“Sorry,” she rasped, but she did not move, and neither did he.

Ever so slowly, she unwound the coil of pressure in her gut. The knots in her shoulders began to slip free and she found herself fixating on the strange wonder of the hairs that brushed against her face, so much curlier than her own.

Just how many people had she had the privilege of getting so close to? If she didn’t count those who were struggling beneath her daggers or who grasped at her in need of a vulnerary, the number had to be…

Zero.

“We have to go back to Enbarr,” Hubert said.

Bernadetta pulled back, the movement almost impossible.

“I can’t,” she said, leaving no time to catch her breath. “If I leave before I testify at his trial, then he’s won. No amount of punishment will ever take from him the fact that I tried to stand up to him and failed. Even if you kill him, he’ll still feel like he won.”

“Bernadetta, he’s torturing you.”

“I knew this would happen,” she replied. “I can take it, even if it hurts, I will keep doing it.”

“ _Please_.” Hubert looked frantic in a way Bernadetta had only seen once or twice, in the shadows of the war room, in the darkest days of 1185. “I cannot allow this to continue, he’s hurting you in ways I don’t know how to protect you from. I’ve never seen you so upset.”

“Well, I have,” Bernadetta said, voice trembling but there all the same. “I’ve felt this upset before and I’ll feel this upset again, no matter what you do to him. If I leave now, though, I’ll spend the rest of my life ashamed that I couldn’t finish the one fight I wanted to win.”

“But if you stay,” Hubert replied immediately, “Who’s to say you won’t spend the rest of your life plagued by nightmares of what he did to you?”

“Then there is no way to win!” Bernadetta snapped, on her feet without realising it. “And if misery is going to come for me no matter what, then it may as well find me standing!” She balled her fists by her sides. “There’s no way you can stop this, Hubert, not the way you want to. Even if I never see him again, he will always live in my head. Even if I never returned to Varley, I’d still have a whole brain full of memories to haunt me – and, I promise you, they _will_ haunt me. I’m not here to end my relationship with him, or even to end his life. There is no ‘end’!” She sliced through the air with hands too tired to shake. “It just keeps going – _I_ keep going. The only reason I’m here is to prove I’m not the coward he insists I am, that he can’t make me _weaker_. He can make me hurt, he can make me cry, but he can’t get rid of me. He can tie me to a chair all he likes, but I’ll still be there when he comes back.”

Bernadetta had not expected his face to change like that, to see a dark cloud move behind his eyes as something in Hubert’s brain shut down.

Bernadetta licked her lips, the steam of her outburst cooling.

“Did I not tell you about that?” she asked after a moment.

“No,” Hubert replied, still sitting on the floor.

There was silence as she wondered what he would say next, but he had gone quiet, the look on his face almost as if he were afraid.

“Well, he did,” she said, letting her hands fall to slap her hips. “He tied me to a chair a lot, and told me to be quiet and to not move or… do anything. I used to put up a fight, but… He was bigger than me.” She looked down. “It started when I was only ten or so, so…” She shrugged, the fire in her heart now cold ashes. “There was no way I could ever actually make him stop. By the time I might have been able to fight him off, I… Couldn’t. It wasn’t just that I was scared, though I, um, I was really, really… It was more like the thought wouldn’t even work for me anymore. Like trying to imagine a new colour, I couldn’t make my brain picture kicking and screaming like I used to. He took something from me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m here to let him know he couldn’t keep it,” she said, and breathed an exhale through a tight throat. “No matter what he does, I’ll still be here, drawing life from soil he could never make sprout.” 

She kept her eyes closed and her posture straight, as if that would freeze the moment. Like playing hide-and-seek as a toddler, believing if she couldn’t see the world, the world couldn’t see her, couldn’t pull the rug out from underneath her for the thousandth time. Fabric rustled and Bernadetta sensed a tall shape in front of her. Hubert had stood up, and she mourned the frayed nerves that automatically tensed to feel a blow.

“Can I…?”

Bernadetta nodded, shallow and frantic all at once. Her whole body seemed to pitch forward, as if a battering ram had hit her from behind, but Hubert was there to catch her with the bony plane of his torso. He was slim enough for her hands to meet as she wrapped her arms around his ribcage, and seemed to have more bones than expected, something digging into her collarbone that she couldn’t quite place, but he was warm and solid and alive and _hugging her back_. Her face flushed as she thought yet again of what Johannes had thought of them, her gut cold yet again, but while the same instinctive part of her brain that had braced for impact cried out for her to run, she forced herself to ignore it. Though her skin tingled and her heart hammered, there was something safe in holding Hubert. Not just in the being held, the gentle pressure grounding her back to reality, but in the holding, the knowledge that she was strong enough to reach out and touch someone, entirely of her own volition.

Hubert was silent, but Bernadetta couldn’t help but think she knew some of what had to be crashing around inside his head.

“I won’t provoke him again,” she said, voice muffled against black wool. “I hadn’t even really meant to do that tonight… I… That was a mistake.”

Hubert just kept holding her. She wondered if he was trying to be soothing with his silence, because it really wasn’t working. But, then again, maybe he just didn’t know what to say. Certainly the words weren’t coming easily for her.

“I was already pretty rattled when I got to dinner, to be honest.”

Hubert sighed, pulling back from her slightly, but Bernadetta did not let her hands slip free of him entirely.

“It must have been awful, to hear Johannes was reporting to your father,” he said quietly.

Bernadetta couldn’t meet his eye.

“Not really,” she croaked. “It… only makes sense. The last thing he needs is more pressure, and it’s not like we can’t work around this, as long as we work with him.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Hubert replied. “Make sure I know what gets passed on.”

“Thank you,” said Bernadetta, but her eyes did not move from the floor, and the lump in her chest did not budge.

She had to tell Hubert.

 _He’ll react_ -

_I don’t care how he reacts. I want to say how I feel._

She took a deep breath, pulled away, and met his gaze.

“He said something else.”

Hubert nodded, looking over her face as if he expected to find physical evidence of what else had happened.

“It wasn’t even bad, it wasn’t even _anything-_ ” She stopped herself, scrunching up her nose. “I mean, other people mightn’t be affected by it, but, um, it kind of… scared me.”

Her hands turned to fists at her side, anxious energy propelling her to do _something_. 

“I wanted to tell you because it’s kind of about you, too, or, at least, what Johannes thinks of you,” she said. “He thought you and I were... involved. Romantically.”

She didn’t look up to see his reaction. Just fixed her eyes on the floor and slowly willed the tension out of her shoulders.

“And that, um, made me feel like… All of whatever that was,” she mumbled. “Not-” she sighed, exhausted with herself and the thousand corrections she always had to make “-Not because I don’t like you. You _know_ I like you. Or, I hope you do.” Her fingernails dug harder into her palms. “Just the whole concept scares me.”

And then something occurred to her.

“That stuff I said, about what my dad did to me,” she said. “He was trying to make me quiet and, y’know, ‘demure’. All that stuff. He was doing it because he wanted to make me ‘a perfect wife’.” She swallowed hard. “So now, whenever I think about marriage or… or men…” She took a rattling breath. “It’s so embarrassing! I hate it, but it’s how I feel, okay? It’s _scary_ , it scares me to think of people looking at me and thinking I’m some man’s wife, of some man looking at me and imagining…”

Her stomach churned.

“Johannes was nice about it,” she mumbled eventually. “He sounded like an uncle teasing me or something… but like he was happy for me. Still. It frightened me, all the same. Made me feel like no matter what I do, there will always be someone else with veto power over my… relationships.”

There was quiet, except for the rasp of Bernadetta forcing her breathing to slow. Outside, the faint smatterings of Varley rain pattered against the marble façade. But in front of her, Hubert still stood, tall and silent.

“Please say something,” she squeaked. “If you hate me, I want to know.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Hubert, and Bernie realised she had known that already, that it hadn’t been a real fear so much as it was the only response she knew. “I don’t hate you, and I promise I don’t feel anything that… one might assume arises between men and women who care for each other.”

Bernadetta lifted her eyes, met Hubert’s gaze. He looked… different. Raw, almost hurt. As if it had been him crying on the floor or yelling about justice and fathers and nonsense like that.

“If I made you feel in any way unsafe-”

“You didn’t,” Bernadetta interrupted. “It’s like everything else that I make a big deal out of: all in my head.”

“Bernadetta,” Hubert sounded as if she had insulted him. “Please. Tonight, it’s felt as if every word out of your mouth has only made me look up to you more.”

Bernie blinked, surprise and something else caught in her throat, choking her. Instinct told her to ask if he was making fun of her, but she was so sick of that damn impulse.

“Why?” she managed.

Hubert looked at her, and there was something in his face that she sometimes saw when he spoke with Edelgard, when her childhood came up.

“The things you have endured…”

“Don’t look up to me for them,” Bernadetta replied. “When my mother dropped me off at Garreg Mach, she said there had to be some sort of fight left in me, that a lesser girl would have died already, by father’s hand or my own. But I never felt like surviving him, like enduring all that was any sort of prize. It just came down to luck, and the fact that I could never really do anything drastic, either to hurt myself to save myself. I just… sat there.”

“If you will not allow me to admire your fortitude,” Hubert replied, “I will accept your terms. But if I cannot admire the fact that you left Varley Manor whole, may I at least honour your ability to return not only as you left it, but stronger? Kinder, I might venture. You had no obligation to return to this line of fire, and yet you felt compelled all the same, out of a need to save others from what you suffered. You have turned your pain into empathy. There is no skill I respect more.”

Bernadetta blinked away the burning in her eyes, tried to swallow the tightness in her throat.

“What else could I do?” she asked. “What kind of person would I be if I turned away, if I said ‘as long as it’s stopped for me, it’s fine’?”

Hubert smiled, gentle and cautious, as if she would shatter from the sight of it.

“Perhaps that is what I admire most about you, then,” said Hubert. “Even if you weren’t able to come back, even if the pain ultimately destroyed you, you still had something more than a desire a return. It’s a need, I can see it in your eyes, how upset you are. You can’t even imagine leaving the people of Varley to your father’s mercy. I dream of a kindness so certain.”

Bernadetta breathed for a moment, chasing words that wouldn’t come, thoughts that hurt to approach.

“Sometimes I wish I was more like you, though,” she said. “Able to…” Her hands extended in claws, shaking in a kind of throttling movement. “Get it over with. I’m always chasing myself in circles, overthinking everything.”

Hubert relaxed slightly as he replied.

“What was it you said before, about wanting to be like someone who’s your opposite?”

Despite herself, Bernadetta felt a similar easing of her frame, the two of them spreading into smiles as they finished the thought in unison. 

“It’s like magnets.” 

Bernadetta sighed, pitching forward to rest her head against Hubert’s breastbone once again.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“Of course.”

It took a second for Hubert to make up his mind as to whether he should rest his hand on her shoulder or not. Its bony weight was delightful in its awkwardness.

“Should I do anything different?” Hubert asked. “To avoid any further… assumptions?”

“I don’t know,” Bernadetta sighed. “I feel better now that I’ve told you about it, at least. And people are going to make assumptions no matter what you do, as long as you’re a man standing next to a woman.”

“No kidding,” muttered Hubert. “You have no idea how many times some trumped-up idiot in Enbarr has tried to blackmail me with the affair I’m allegedly having with Edelgard. It’s an embarrassment to the entire concept of espionage.”

Bernadetta snorted, pulling back.

“Um, thank you, again,” she said, only just now thinking to scrub at her face with her sleeve. “For listening to me, but also for being so smart over dinner. The idea of touring the mines and forges and stuff is a great one – he’ll think we’re after something that can’t be found in the house, and we’ll have a clear shot at his records.”

Hubert gave her a smile, though it twitched and he couldn’t quite keep himself from breaking eye contact. He was quiet for a moment and Bernadetta let him remain so, until he found the words he was looking for.

“You don’t have to dirty your hands with the actual skulking about,” he said. “I know you said being out of bed in these halls unnerves you-”

“I’m still going to try,” she announced. “There’s something satisfying about the idea of getting my hands on a physical object that could, y’know, bring it all crashing down for him. Besides, I kinda wanna work on dealing with some of the… emotional legacies left to me by my mother, too.”

Her mother. Goddess, that was a whole other can of worms. Bernadetta tried to turn her mind to her, find the image of her cold, mauve eyes that seemed to pierce through the fog like beacons, but her mind was tired. Like trying to walk up a sand dune, she couldn’t get herself into gear.

Hubert was staring at her. He looked nearly as exhausted as she felt.

“When this is all over,” he said, “You deserve to sleep for a week.”

Bernie felt her face split into a grin, a gentle laugh shaking her shoulders.

“Hibernation does sound like a good plan,” she said, “for both Bernie Bear and Hu-bat.”

Hubert groaned and she laughed a little louder.

“Don’t let Ferdinand hear you calling me that,” he warned. “He’ll never call me by my name again.”

But he was relaxing, looking at her less as something to be protected, and more like the friend she had so long wanted to be.

“You should get some rest,” she said, and for a moment, Edelgard’s calm advice was back nestled inside her head, though her horns had since fallen off. “You’re gonna need it, considering you’ll be spending the day with my father.”

Hubert did not wince, the way Bernadetta would have herself, had she been trying to play off the tension. Instead he nodded, as if her advice was actual insight.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I should be thanking you!”

“You already did,” he reminded her, and she sighed.

Her limbs were suddenly all very heavy, her eyelids falling like snow-laden shutters.

“Sleep well, Lady Bernadetta,” said Hubert. “And know that you are safe, not only under the protection of the Empire, but also the strength of your own heart.”

With that and a bow, he left her. But though she was exhausted, Bernadetta did not move to her bed immediately. Instead she found herself at the window, peaking out through the curtains to search in vain for the lights of homesteads dotted across the steppe, wondering just how many of the people of Varley carried fears like her own through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey team, just finished my first week back at my Masters degree, I'm exhausted and my situation at home has somehow nose-dived even deeper into the crisis zone lmao, but I'm still really enjoying writing this fic, so hopefully I can continue updating it regularly. As always I really appreciate any constructive criticism you might have, and I really do adore all of your comments even if I find it hard to get the energy to reply most of the time. 
> 
> Please come hang out with me on twitter [ @commanderfreddy ](https://twitter.com/commanderfreddy) and if you're in a position where you can and would like to support me in a direct way, please check out the link in my twitter bio. Thanks again 🖤


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated **M** : _A minor character is physically assaulted by the Count, and Hubert reflects on finding the corpse of Bernadetta's mother. Bernadetta directly interacts with her father in this chapter._

Hubert sat rigid in his saddle as Count Varley made his way to his horse. Once again, his decision to send his groom back to Enbarr chafed at him, but he kept those thoughts inside, focusing instead on the virtues of the grooms of Varley. They were working fast, faster than they had been yesterday. The mere concept of the Count seemed to be enough to have them hastening through tack setup, their movements reminding Hubert of the way he used to run through the halls at night as a child, afraid of an assailant he had only imagined.

“Thank you for the directions, yesterday,” he said to the groom checking his horse’s shoes.

The groom’s eyes widened.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, and it did not sound like an acceptance of thanks.

Hubert pointedly did not look to Count Varley, forcing himself instead to nod to the groom as if their conversation had been completely normal. But he hadn’t become a Vestra without learning to track motion from the corners of his eyes, and as he lazily examined the stables, he watched Varley mount his horse. He hadn’t known what to expect – the man’s age and reluctance to move had suggested to Hubert the type of noble who had to be hoisted into the saddle, but Hubert wasn’t about to trust any of his instincts around that man anymore. It was almost disappointing to see him mount his horse the same way his own father had. A slight bounce to build up momentum, but ultimately a smooth swing into the saddle. The picture of the staid nobleman, spending years behind his desk but never forgetting the equestrian lessons of his youth.

Hubert wasn’t sure how to hate him for that, but figured he would go ahead and do it anyway.

“Tell me, Hubert,” said Varley, bringing his horse over. Hubert wanted to tear his name bleeding from the Count’s mouth. “What exactly are you hoping to see today?”

Hubert met his gaze. He hated that the Count didn’t even seem to be searching him, how the glint in his eye seemed to gloat about how he knew all of Hubert’s plans. Hubert smiled gently. He had spoken to Johannes. He knew what the Count knew.

But, of course, he didn’t know what the Count _thought_ of what he knew, what conclusions he had jumped to. That was what today had to be about. Discovering what the Count was trying to protect, while at the same time leading him away from the one thing he actually should be guarding.

Now he was starting to sound like Bernadetta at her most stressed, talking in circles.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” he said to the Count, a false levity buoying his words. “Certainly I don’t want to make you ride too far, but I’d like to see what you consider the most impressive of Varley’s mines. And perhaps one of its exceptional forges, should you judge any of them worthy of imperial attention. I’m well aware that Bergliez supplied the majority of industrial might during the war, so there’s no need if you have no desire to-”

“Varley’s history of metalsmithing dwarfs the recent playing at ‘war’ by a thousandfold,” sniffed the Count, steering his horse out of the stables. “Perhaps, if you have any interest in the _future_ of Varley, you would do well to understand its past.”

“Of course,” said Hubert with a rapid half-bow in the saddle. He nudged his horse into drawing abreast of the Count and made sure to meet his eyes when he replied. “It would be an honour if you could rectify my ignorance, if even a little.”

“Hm,” said the Count and, used to the tight-lipped unpredictability of his father, Hubert assumed that was all he was going to get.

Instead, not more than a minute down the road, the Count spoke again.

“Varley’s industrial output was only outdone by Bergliez’s during the war due to their existing focus on weapons production,” he said, voice tight. “Here in Varley, we pride ourselves on the diversity of our manufacturing operations.”

“Ah, I see,” said Hubert. He eyed the way Varley gripped his reins, how rigid he sat in his saddle.

Hubert blinked, but he could not brush away the image of the Count raising his hand against Bernadetta the night before, the raw tension and fury that filled his whole body. Throughout the war, Hubert had seen plenty of personalities pushed to the limit, years of stress bubbling to the surface and overflowing in conflict between supposed comrades. That same bulging temple and hard-set jaw that he now saw in the man riding beside him, he knew them well. But Hubert had seen them on the faces of soldiers who had faced countless setbacks, had friends die in their arms, seen homes turned to ash in front of them. Count Varley seemed ready to snap at everything, at nothing, with all the ferocity of a man who just had his entire life pulled out from underneath him.

Bernadetta shivering on the floor returned to the fore of his mind.

“Yes,” ground out Varley. “As a peacetime investment, clearly there’s much more to be gained in supporting those with experience producing more than just swords. And am I correct in my assumption that the Emperor wishes to maintain peacetime? Or, I wonder, is that merely to pacify the old fools who will no doubt be her next target?”

Hubert blinked. He had to react quickly, before the Count accused him of lying, but where was he even supposed to start with that? He had referred to Edelgard by her actual title, however, so Hubert found himself believing that he was genuinely frustrated, as opposed to just trying to rile Hubert up, the way he had been the day before. But how was that supposed to help, when he had seen the consequences of the Count’s anger?

“I assure you, Her Imperial Majesty’s desire for peace is very real,” Hubert replied. “She would not be sending delegates she values as highly as Lady Bernadetta out on diplomatic missions if she thought she still had enemies that required elimination.”

But, at that, the Count snorted. A harsh crack of a noise, nothing like the gentle snorting giggles of his daughter, and yet, horrifyingly, still clearly cut of the same cloth. It was genuine amusement, and Hubert found himself disgusted at the knowledge that he’d brought it about.

“Well, you’re nothing if not persistent,” muttered Varley. “Vestra. Really. Do not pretend that I do not know why you’re here, what you’re doing.”

Hubert let himself stretch the silence out for a few seconds before replying.

“I am afraid that despite my years of cultivating skills for Her Imperial Majesty,” he said, “I have not yet mastered the art of mind-reading. So if you would like to discuss something you know, then, by all means, go ahead. But first, I will need you to speak the topic aloud.”

The Count’s eyes slid to him, as calculating as they had been yesterday. Hubert met them, face as impassive as ever, despite the roiling nest of anxiety inside of him. It didn’t seem fair that such a temper could co-exist with such astute diplomatic observation in one man. It made him a foe of all kinds, unable to be stumped on his impatience due to the speed of his mental calculations, while at the same time difficult to mislead due to the unpredictability of his intense paranoia.

If Hubert had known him better at the start of the mission, perhaps he could have constructed a common enemy which he could direct the Count’s ire toward. But, as it stood, it was too late to concoct a bogeyman, and the only available real people for such a role were Edelgard and Bernadetta. Hubert’s heart hardened at the mere thought of using either of them like that.

“Have it your way, then,” said the Count, looking out over the empty hills, dotted only by the occasional goat and farm-supply shed. “But, as you said, you are not a mind-reader. You could be missing out on an unexpected ally.”

_I used to put up a fight, but he was way bigger than me…_

Hubert’s horse tossed its mane as his vision went blank and his knees clamped down around its flanks.

At this point, Manfred von Varley could hand over his records, put himself in handcuffs and supply his own execution axe, and Hubert would still turn it all down just to watch him snarl.

“Just tell me this,” said Varley. “Will you actually be reporting on Varley’s contributions to the Emperor?”

Hubert did his best not to blink, and then, realising that, too, was unnatural, blinked too much. At the very least, he managed to keep the smile from his face even as it oozed into his voice.

“I assure you, Count Varley,” he replied, “It is in my best interests to report to the Emperor on your legacy in the most extensive, effusive and _accurate_ manner that I can.”

* * *

Bernadetta hoped Hubert wasn’t threatening her father too overtly. Her nails dug into the windowsill as she wondered for the hundredth time if it was a good idea to let their plans for riding go ahead mere hours after Hubert had learnt just what exactly her father had done to her. He wasn’t exactly subtle when his emotions came into play – hiding one’s body was a very different skill to hiding one’s murderous intent, and Hubert had been open with her in his lack of experience in playing the diplomat for more than an hour or so.

Bernie shook her head, rattling her hairclips, though they were far less ostentatious than the horns she’d worn the night before.

If Hubert needed her to do damage control, then he’d tell her when he returned. And if something happened while they were out on the road and Hubert couldn’t control himself, then… Bernadetta tossed her hands, letting her knuckles graze against the window. They’d put his corpse on trial, or _something_. They’d figure it out, just like they were figuring this out – leading her father along an unmarked wild goose chase in the faint hope that he’d leave his study unguarded. She tore from one side of the room to the other, legs alight with inaction.

She couldn’t just sit in her room all day, overthinking things. She’d spent the first decade and a half of her life like that, and it hadn’t gotten her anything except a catalogue of fears likely longer than the damn ledgers she was after. Why _was_ she so intent on staying in her room, anyway? Her father was out. There weren’t any strangers in the manor – only staff, who were either sympathetic to her or, at the very worst, wanted to stay out of her way. It was habit. Mere habit, she told herself, even as her stomach turned to lead as she brushed her doorhandle.

 _Stupid little thing, can’t even handle a hallway_ -

“That insult doesn’t even make sense!” she cried, wrenching the door open hard enough to set her shoulder aching.

“Stupid people go outside _all the time_ , Caspar is literally camping _right now-_ ”

And even though it was mean and silly and there wasn’t even anyone around to hear it, Bernadetta found her mouth twisting into a little smile, an affectionately exasperated snort escaping at her joke.

Was she allowed to be affectionately exasperated with herself? That seemed… incorrect somehow. But, at the same time, it was a matter solely between her and herself, so who was to say she couldn’t?

Bernadetta looked up from where her eyes had defaulted to the floor, and remembered she was more than an abstract collection of thoughts. She had a body, and it was standing in the hallway. She should go somewhere, she knew that. If she was going to be sneaking around with Hubert, she had to be able to go beyond just her room and the kitchen and the dining room. Her father’s room… now there was a bold choice. She’d absolutely end up shaking on the floor again, but she could try it.

_Why the hell would you do that?_

Well, it wouldn’t matter, would it? She’d just ride out the panic as usual…

 _Yeah, but you don’t_ have _to panic, it would just be a waste of time._

Bernadetta breathed out, strangely surprised. The voice in her head was right, and it didn’t make her feel like an idiot for acknowledging it. It wasn’t screaming at her to look away from a shopkeeper, it was warning her of a reaction she knew she would have.

Right. Not her father’s room, then, she decided, heart lighter than before. Instead, she’d force herself to go to her mother’s chambers.

The little voice in her head wailed at that too, but Bernadetta quashed it. She didn’t trust the shrill little thing to be right twice in a row and, besides… There was a heavy weight in her stomach that only seemed to grow at the thought of her mother. It wasn’t right that she had been at the estate for days and hadn’t once taken a moment to visit her room, to even think of her.

Had it really only been a week or so since she had died? That felt ridiculous. And yet, at the same time, it felt like nothing had changed at all. Even when they had both lived in the same house they had rarely crossed paths, Countess Varley so fixated on her experiments and Bernadetta so confined to her room. And on the few occasions they had interacted, there had always been such a strange aura from her mother. Not like her father’s open disdain, but something more nebulous. One part as if her mother was studying her, and another that seemed… disappointed. As if Bernadetta was a chemical compound that had turned out to be more like oil and water than sugar and tea. Even as a child, when she was internalising everything she could and the very rotation of the world seemed to be her fault, Bernadetta had felt as if her mother’s disappointment in her was less to do with what Bernadetta did, and more like her mother was disappointed in her own scientific rigour.

As if Bernadetta was a failed prototype, but close enough to functioning that throwing her in the furnace would seem a waste.

Bernie clutched her house-cape closer to her body as she made her way through the halls. There was no point in wondering just what had been behind her mother’s eyes. She didn’t have a mother anymore.

Phrasing it like that was enough to stop her in her tracks before her mother’s door. By the time this was all over, she would likely be an orphan.

She fumbled for the door handle, pulling it open as if she’d find her mother standing behind it, as if there was some kind of forgotten diary just waiting for her to read and discover everything her mother had ever thought about her. But no, waiting for her was only Hubert’s room. Impersonal as any guest room, it had been stripped of any trace of her mother. Bernadetta’s heart sank. She didn’t know why she had expected anything else – one of the very first things that was said upon her arrival was that Hubert would be getting the old Countess’ quarters. And, if she was being honest with herself, it had probably been stripped long before her death.

Bernadetta sat gingerly down in an armchair in the parlour, the exact same kind of chair that her mother had filled the rest of the house with. And yet, she knew with an eerie certainty that this chair had not been in this room when her mother had lived her. It was a replica, commissioned by her father with a snap of his fingers, telling whatever wretched antiques dealer that furnished his rooms to re-outfit his wife’s lodgings, too. Had her mother even been settled in Enbarr before her father had torn the room apart? Or had he only waited for her to disappear over the horizon before violating her quarters with that same ruthless ignorance to autonomy that he displayed in all of his actions, from eating to mining to the way he looked at his daughter?

Bernadetta closed her eyes, tried to imagine the way the room had been during her childhood. There weren’t plush armchairs like this, not even in her mother’s favoured black suede. The parlour was not for tea-drinking or knitting the way other ladies’ rooms were. It was a lab. Bernadetta blinked. No the lab had been some forbidden room, a mysterious chamber forbidden to her. But… that didn’t mean it couldn’t have been where a parlour was supposed to be. Had she really visited her mother so few times that she didn’t notice that her lab of noxious chemicals was the very _first_ of her chambers?

That couldn’t be right.

But how else could Bernadetta explain her lack of memories of her mother’s bedchamber?

She keened forward, head between her legs as a wave of nausea gripped her. How could she have never approached her mother’s bed? She had memories of waking up in the throes of a nightmare, of climbing into a different bed, being held, so small and-

That was the nursemaid. She’d slept in a pallet in the corner of Bernadetta’s tower room, taught her how to walk and talk and name her teddies and fed her and held her until Bernadetta had turned four and her mother had decided it was time for her to start overachieving.

Had it been her mother’s choice to dismiss the nursemaid? Bernadetta had no idea. She had just always assumed so, because the tutors that followed had all been people who cast the same sort of shadow as her mother. Impossibly tall and always looking down, voices incandescent with passion for the simplest arithmetic exercises, unaccepting of the simplest mistakes. Bernadetta had hated it. But more than that, she had hated herself for how poorly she stood in their eyes.

“ _Your mother assures me that you will be nothing short of the best. I know you do not intend to make a liar of her_.”

Who had even said that to her? And why would her mother have such faith in her, demand that she fulfil it? She wasn’t the best, she was just Bernie. She wasn’t Countess Jania von Varley, greatest mind of the 12th Century, having risen from an obscure lordling family to take her rightful place in the centre of Enbarr academia. She was just some little slip of a thing who was beaten for daring to move, not like her mother, who…

Bernadetta’s eyes opened, her feet floating into view. What _had_ her mother’s life been like, before she married Manfred? She hadn’t spoken of it. She hadn’t spoken of _herself_ at all, only what she had done, what she intended to do.

What had she _needed_ from Bernadetta, what had she been trying to do, giving her all those tutors but never spending a quiet evening with her, going to the great trouble and expense of whisking her away to Garreg Mach but never doing anything about the way her father treated her? Had there been some great plan? A step Bernadetta was supposed to take?

“What do you _want_ from me?”

Her voice cracked in the empty air, and the stranger’s room offered nothing in reply.

_It doesn’t matter. She’s dead now._

And even though the voice was right, though the Countess was dead and there was nothing left for Bernadetta to do, she could not shake the feeling that it did still matter, even if to no one but herself.

* * *

Hubert watched the Count tie a black silk kerchief around his mouth, unease growing as half the Count’s expression was rendered illegible.

“You’ll want one, too,” said the Count, startling Hubert by holding out another square of silk. “The dust… Well, you’ll see soon enough.”

Hubert took the proffered cloth with a confidence he did not feel, keeping his breath shallow. As he rubbed it between his fingers he relaxed ever so slightly as he found no trace of poison or powder against the fabric. He hadn’t expected the Count to actually be so bold as to attempt to chloroform him in the middle of a mining operation, but Hubert hadn’t survived this long by taking chances. For the same reason, however, he tied the kerchief around his mouth as advised. The Count had seemed to him pretty cavalier when it came to threats, so this iron dust had to be serious business, although, perhaps Hubert could have figured that out just by looking around.

Not too far north-west of Varley Manor, the grassy hills of the steppe grew scraggly and then bare, the grey rocks broke through the surface of the soil and the little farmsheds gave way instead to hunched over shacks that marked the start of mineshafts. Through the fog and the mist, the scene was somehow even more desolate than the surroundings of Varley Manor. At least, it had been, until the Count had lead him over one final hill and into the shadow of the first of the Oghma Mountains, where in the face of the grey cliffs stood a man-made cave, stone and gravel spilling out to form an open courtyard surrounded by the hills. Dotted about this empty scape were the working men and women of Varley, some of them trundling barrows of ore to the waiting oxcarts, others clustered around a gesticulating foreman, and others sitting on discarded crates or squatting on their own heels, eking out a break where they could find it.

It reminded Hubert of a military camp, in everything from the soggy exhaustion to the rusty tang that filled the air. Hubert had seen the iron-filled hills of what had once been Nuvelle, and had expected to see similarly red-stained earth here, but it seemed that everything in Varley was the same kind of grey, even their iron mines. As Hubert affixed his kerchief, he and the Count waited astride their horses atop the hill, overlooking the mouth of the mine. One by one, the miners below caught sight of them. Before Hubert’s eyes, an air of sudden chill seemed to run through the people of Varley, those who were taking their breaks standing and then looking about, wondering what to do, while those at work turned their heads to the ground, as if trying to appear even busier. 

“It seems we’ve been spotted,” said Hubert.

The Count made some disapproving grunt, the wretched creature no doubt unsatisfied with even this flurry to attention, the best not good enough, nothing up to his standards.

Hubert flexed his gloved hands.

“I assure you,” said the Count, “The level of unprofessionalism on display is completely out of the normal. The foreman and his crew shall be suitably punished.”

As predictable as a fucking clock.

“That I should like to see,” said Hubert, letting his voice grow as slippery and disgusting as he could manage. He no longer had any motivation to make that creature of a man in any way sympathetic to him, but if he could at least be present for the “punishment”, he’d know how to neutralise it, if not stop it.

The Count made another guttural noise – grunt or snort or dismissal, Hubert didn’t care – and without warning clicked his horse into action again, beginning the descent to the mine yard. The foreman, a heavyset pale man who seemed far too young for such a position – raced to meet them, still shouting instructions at his crew even as he jogged over. He was absolutely caked in dust, and, Hubert was surprised to see, not wearing a mouth covering. Actually, none of the miners were. But there was no time to ponder that, not when Count Varley was pulling his horse up to a brutally sudden stop, forcing her to rear and flail heavy hooves over the foreman’s head. Hubert couldn’t stop himself from sucking in air sharp through his teeth. What a flogging Ferdinand would give this wretch for mistreating his horse so…

“What’s the meaning of this?” the Count was barking as Hubert brought his own horse to a (slower) stop.

“It’s lunch, sir,” replied the foreman.

Count Varley struck him across the face with his riding crop, and Hubert felt his heart slow. Everything ripped into hyperfocus, all sound a strange buzzing in his ear as he shifted into a frame of mind normally reserved for frontline combat. Hubert was slipping from the horse, umbral energy was swirling in his veins, the foreman was clutching at his bright red cheek but he still had the presence of mind to stare at Hubert, horror writ large across his face.

This wasn’t a battle.

His brain was starting to catch up, but his legs were still moving, the instinct to warp allies to safety still the most prominent force in his brain. He stretched out a hand – what did he intend to do with it? The foreman flinched away and Hubert hated the fear on his face but everything was still buzzing, all the world just a fight to be won.

“Vestra!”

Hubert stopped. It was like having an hailstone stuffed down the back of his shirt, something Caspar had done, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

The Count snapped with the voice of someone used to being obeyed, and Hubert, someone used to obeying, let his hand fall and his feet shuffle to a stop.

“You might be used to cursing everyone who so much as blinks at you in Enbarr,” Count Varley was saying, “But don’t you get ahead of yourself. You are on my land, and these are my people.”

Hubert’s tongue felt like a doorstop in his mouth. He couldn’t swallow around it.

“But of course,” he managed. His throat felt more like the charred inside of a chimney than a part of his body. “I have stepped obscenely out of line…” he dropped to a kneel, head bowed, “…In my desire to protect your honour. I beg forgiveness, knowing that I do not deserve it.”

Hubert could feel the Count rolling his eyes. He wished he could stop feeling everything else.

“Get up,” said Varley, and then, “You! Stop clutching at your face like a woman at a handkerchief. It won’t make you any less of a coward.”

Hubert rose, avoiding meeting the foreman’s eyes as he did so. There was no amount of sympathy he could put into his face to undo the fear he had inspired earlier, and Hubert wasn’t exactly a master of facial expressions to begin with.

“Your name,” said the Count.

Hubert could hear the foreman swallow.

“Niklaus Vogel, my lord.”

“Well, Vogel, the only reason you are not being terminated this instant is because I don’t want Vestra waiting around while I train your replacement,” replied the Count. “So I suggest you start answering his questions.”

Hubert kept his eyes fixed on the bustle of miners in the courtyard, but there was no missing how Vogel’s smarting face snapped to stare at Hubert. He gave the foreman a courteous nod. At least the movement gave him an excuse to brush his eyes over him, confirm that the blow hadn’t broken the skin, though Hubert had spent enough time fighting alongside brawlers to know that subdermal haematomas – on the face, no less! – could ruin lives.

“What can I do for you, Vestra… sir?” asked Vogel. He had a naturally deep voice and the kind of stout stance that Hubert was used to seeing in the army, yet something deep within Vogel was quivering like a leaf.

“Simply Vestra – or Minister, if you insist – will suffice. I have little interest in the inheritance foisted upon me by my father,” said Hubert. He could feel the Count’s eyes on him, hot as coals. “I’m here as a representative of Her Imperial Majesty, assessing-”

Hubert caught himself just in time. _Not_ assessing the way Varley has been managed in the past few years, certainly not drawing any attention to the records that they were hoping to hunt.

“-Varley’s contributions to the Empire, and how best they would be maximised in the future.”

Vogel nodded slowly, like a cornered cat waiting for its opponent to strike.

“Her Imperial Majesty…” he said, and Hubert couldn’t tell if he didn’t believe it, or if he just didn’t know the Emperor’s title. “I suppose I’d best give you a tour, then.”

“You cannot seriously expect to drag a distinguished guest into the dirt,” snapped the Count.

Hubert couldn’t take it anymore. He had to disagree with the shithead, if only on this.

“Actually, if a tour is on offer, I would be most honoured,” he said. “To witness firsthand where the strength of the Empire – and the coffers of Varley – is born would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Vogel blinked.

Ah, shit. He’d laid it on too thick, hadn’t he? Varley was staring at him again.

“It is my sworn duty to the Emperor to report on Varley to the very best of my abilities,” he added quickly, which no doubt only made him look more suspicious.

“The Emperor really thinks we’re that important?”

And for once Hubert didn’t have to think before replying.

“Yes. I promise you, she does.”

Hubert could tell the Count was rolling his eyes.

“See to my horses, Vogel,” said the Count, even though Hubert’s horse was his own. “And I’ll leave you two to play about in the dirt.’

“Right, my lord,” said Vogel, almost breaking into a run before he remembered Hubert. “I’ll meet you at the entrance, Minister.”

Hubert gave his horse an awkward pat as two young miners came sprinting over, Vogel’s insistence that they “do whatever he wants!” ringing in the air.

“Thank you again for this opportunity,” Hubert said to the Count as he handed over his reins to one of the approaching women.

“I know what you want, Vestra,” said the Count. He sounded almost tired. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

Hubert kept his eyes on him, impassive as the venom in his heart could manage.

“My only desire is to serve the Empire. You can take that as an oath.”

* * *

Bernadetta wasn’t sure what she was looking for in her room. She’d already done a cursory examination of what had been left there when she had unpacked, but she hadn’t done a deep dive. There wasn’t really a need. She had never owned anything particularly precious, in either a monetary or emotional sense, and she certainly never had access to anything that could count as evidence for her father’s trial. She was starting to suspect that she was looking just for the sake of looking. Spending even a moment thinking about her mother… It had raised questions. Too many questions.

A cold knife in her gut told her that she had spent too long fixating on her father, and her mother had passed her by. But that wasn’t fair. She whispered it to herself over and over, trying to make it true. That was like blaming a lamb for fixating on a lion. Threats draw attention, she hadn’t forced herself through a military career to not know that much.

She forced open a jewellery box, a stiff, brass, antique-looking thing. She had missed that necklace with the milky quartz, but that was her only thought. No eureka. Nothing that had been her mother’s, or had even been given to her by her mother. Where had she gotten all this junk, anyway? Had her mother owned similar boxes of excess?

Bernadetta couldn’t even remember if her mother had worn jewellery. She had clinked when she walked, like a bowl full of keys, but considering the amount of alchemic apparatuses she owned, that could have just been equipment. What had she smelled like? Had she held Bernadetta? She had to have, Bernie remembered remembering being held. But she couldn’t put a time or a place to the moment. That night, when she dragged Bernie out of bed and bundled her into a carriage and sent her off to Garreg Mach, had she held her then? Told her to be good? Said she was sorry, or that she wasn’t sorry, or that this was for Bernie’s own good, or-?

All she could remember was how weirdly brown everything had looked in torchlight. What a stupid memory.

She pulled the damn quartz necklace over her head, slammed the jewellery box shut, and then nearly jumped out of her skin at a knock at the door.

“We’re back,” said Hubert through the heavy wood.

“Oh!”

She raced to the door and pulled it open, ushering Hubert into her room as best as she could without actually touching him. He looked… gritty. It was hard to tell, considering his exclusively black wardrobe and the fact that he’d clearly splashed his face, but he seemed to be covered in dust.

“Did you really go all the way out to an active mine?” she asked.

“And then I dragged him out to a blast furnace, too,” said Hubert.

He kicked up the tails of his coat, clearly intending to take a seat, before pausing mid-motion.

“I think I just covered everything you own in a magnetic dust.”

“It was all pretty dusty anyway,” said Bernadetta, flapping an arm to insist he resume his seat. “Just tell me what happened, what you found out.

“Well,” said Hubert, gingerly taking his place on her ottoman, “The one thing I can say for certain is that an iron mine is a very unpleasant place to be.”

Bernadetta winced.

“Do you think it’s safe?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Hubert. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if it wasn’t.” He licked his lips, looking as though he was about to say more, but didn’t.

“We’ll get someone in from old Alliance territory,” Bernadetta offered. “They had loads of mines, right.”

Hubert nodded, rubbing his chin.

“What?” Bernadetta asked, a coil of tension burning in her chest. “You’re avoiding something. What is it?”

Hubert looked at her.

“What do you know about your mother’s experiments?”

Bernadetta was caught so off guard, she found herself blurting, “Nothing,” before she realised that wasn’t true at all.

“I mean, I know some stuff,” she quickly amended. “She made those blast barrels we used for gambits, and she worked on Resonant Lightning, and… She hurt Johannes.”

She felt awful saying that, even though the proof of it was writ large across a man’s face.

“Yes, Johannes,” said Hubert, pointing a finger at her in that way Ferdinand did when he got an idea he was particularly excited about. “Did he tell you what particular compound he was exposed to?”

“No,” said Bernadetta, so immediate she nearly cut him off. “He had no idea what it was. Just…” she looked up to meet Hubert’s eyes, “Just that it was something she had dug up here in Varley.”

Hubert nodded.

“They don’t have a name for it-”

“They?” Bernadetta asked, her heart hammering.

“The miners. They’re still digging it up.”

Bernadetta stood silent for a moment.

“Do you think… they could have been selling it to,” her eyes darted to her left, as if she expected to see an eavesdropper, “Those Who Slither In The Dark?”

Hubert gave her a surprised grin.

“That was my first thought, too,” he said. “If there’s one thing those fuckers could do, it was dig, but that didn’t mean anything. Perhaps it was a one-of-a-kind mineral. But the only way to tell for certain was to try a bold and new form of investigation called ‘asking someone’.”

Bernadetta’s eyes darted about again.

“If my father heard you ask…”

“But he _did_ hear me,” said Hubert. “He spent so little time anywhere near the miners, yet I deliberately waited until he was in earshot before asking, because if he thinks we’re after an undisclosed source of mining wealth, he’ll start protecting his stupid ore samples and mine wagons a hell of a lot more than last year’s expenditure records.”

“I know,” said Bernadetta, nibbling her lower lip, “And that’s good, drawing him away from the records, but… There’s no way he could have been happy to see you looking into this.”

“That was the strangest part of it all, though,” said Hubert, scraping dust from beneath his fingernails with a concentrated scowl. “He paid that question no more attention than he did the rest of my industrial babbling. Even though it was a separate mineshaft, with its own discrete team. Even though, when I asked the foreman where the excavated mineral was transported to, he said he didn’t know.”

“Wait, what?’ said Bernadetta.

Hubert looked to her again, and at last she could place his facial expression. He wasn’t scared or angry or frustrated… he was just confused. Completely and utterly clueless.

“I asked him if he was trying to be circumspect of the customer’s privacy, but he just did not know,” Hubert continued. “I asked who had it previously gone to and he didn’t know that either. And he was defensive, too, he said it wasn’t on the books, that it had never been on the books, he asked this old, old man who sat in a little office with an oil lamp and seven huge filing cabinets and he said he didn’t know either. He said to me, ‘the yellow stuff gets carted by the Silberschmied boys and where they take it, I don’t ask’.”

Bernadetta’s brow furrowed.

Silberschmied…

“It just boggles the mind,” said Hubert. “To think of such volatile compounds being handled with such disinterest…”

Why was the name Silberschmied so familiar? Like the name of a classmate from a long distant childhood. But Bernadetta hadn’t had classmates until she was seventeen. She’d only had-

“Right!” she barked, chasing her own thoughts away, and sending Hubert’s eyes snapping back to her.

“Do you know something?” he asked.

Bernie coughed.

“Um, no,” she said. “I just… I don’t know.” She shook her head.

“I understand,” muttered Hubert. “It’s… bizarre. I ended up grilling that old man and the foreman for far too long to see if they’d ever sent it to Arundel or Cornelia or any of those _puppets_ ,” he spat. “But they just didn’t know. Around the beginning of the war, the Countess told them to sink a new shaft right near the big iron one, and to send what they dug up with ‘the Silberschmied boys’ – whoever the hell they are. No one ever asked them where they took it. Where they’re still taking it.”

Hubert rubbed a palm over his face as Bernadetta swayed back and forth on legs that suddenly felt insufficient to hold her upright. She closed her eyes. Some small, strange thing her mother had set in motion was still out there, the wheels of her mother’s great mind still turning in the cogs of an alien machine. Countess Jania lived on, at least in her will. Knowing her father, Bernadetta figured this one eerie operation was the only thing of her mother’s that had continued as she intended after her passing. Everything else about the woman who had created her had been scattered to the wind, except for a regular wagonload of ‘yellow stuff’ riding into the sunset.

“We have to focus on the records,” she forced out, the words sounding more like air expelled by a punch than actual speech. “You… I’m guessing you’re already looking into the Silberschmieds.”

“I may have asked the Varley staff if they knew the name,” said Hubert.

“Well, you can look for them tomorrow!” snapped Bernadetta.

She recoiled from her own words the way she would a hot stove, looking at Hubert with horrified eyes.

“You’re right,” was all he said.

Both of them were silent for a moment more.

“I ought to bathe before dinner,” muttered Hubert, rising to his feet. “And I’ll be sure to jabber on about innovations in mining over the meal, don’t worry. I’m just as sick of not having these damn records as you are, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Bernadetta squeaked. “And tomorrow, I’ll help you. Silberschmied rings a bell, though, um, a really faint one. This whole thing… It’s more work than you signed up for.”

“I signed up to help the people of Varley,” said Hubert. “And I intend to do so, no matter what the threats may be.”

Their eye contact lingered for a moment more.

“It probably isn’t Those Who Slither,” said Bernadetta.

“I know,” said Hubert, tugging on a dusty lock of hair. “But that means there’s someone else to worry about.”

* * *

Bernadetta asked questions at dinner. Hubert could _feel_ how her father clenched beside him, readying himself for an outburst every time, but Hubert was faster than him. He dove in to answer immediately, always making sure to ask the Count to contribute his own thoughts, trapping him in an admittedly flimsy web of decorum. Why the Count played along, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was mere force of habit, or the belief that Hubert really could get him shining in the Emperor’s eyes. Hubert suspected he just liked watching them squirm.

But Bernadetta was getting better at this. She asked about the mines, the forge, gushed about the wonders of iron. She even brought up her mother, independent of the yellow stuff. The mention of the Countess made Hubert’s mind wander, if only slightly. She was dead, only a week in the tomb. A Vestra Sorcery Engineer of great skill, he should have known her. But he hadn’t. And from how often Bernadetta’s questions veered to her, he couldn’t help but wonder if she felt similarly ignorant, caught just as off guard by a rapid and unceremonious departure. He had seen the corpse, when investigating the lab where she fell. Later examinations would prove her insides to be burnt and twisted, but in that first moment of discovery, she had just looked sick and severe, like so many mages did. Some macabre part of him felt she deserved a more dramatic send off. Something to suit the madness of Varley, her own relentless pursuit of knowledge at the expense of anyone and everything.

It would have been better if they found her screaming. Instead, death had relaxed her features and she had lain slack-jawed, crumpled over her desk, as if she had fallen asleep. As if she had let her guard down.

“Hubert was telling me, too, that you’re keeping some of mother’s plans in operation, too.”

The Count lowered his cup half-way to his lips.

Hubert had to focus, meet his cues, or else he’d be dealing with another Varley woman cut far too short.

“Ah, yes,” said Hubert with yet another false smile. “Quite ingenious, mining two substances from one operation. Although, I suppose a lot of that has to do with the luck of geology, but still! The late Countess had quite the eye for opportunity. I shan’t go poking into a deceased woman’s wishes, of course, but I must say you’re doing an excellent job keeping apace of the iron demand while still mining her shaft.”

“I see,” muttered the Count.

No awkward thanks? Hubert looked over to meet Bernadetta’s eyes while the Count took a deep drink. Her brow had creased, ever so slightly. She’d noticed it, too. Was it possible the Count didn’t _know_? But then… where were the Silberschmied brothers taking it?

And then, to make things only infinitely more confusing, the Count rose.

“I must be off,” he announced, and then strode from the dining hall without another word.

Bernadetta and Hubert immediately locked eyes again.

“What-?” they both began at once, stopping to just stare at each other in confusion.

“Does he not know?” asked Bernadetta.

“That’s what I thought, but-

“Then where’s it going?” Bernadetta finished, before biting down on a fingernail. “Maybe he’s gone to tell them to cease operations? Like, is it _that_ secret?”

“I’ve no clue,” said Hubert, “Even the people working there had no idea what it was, or what it was for. But he didn’t hide it from me when we were there…”

Bernadetta’s brow furrowed, before she, too, leapt to her feet.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, palms against the table. “Whatever he’s thinking, he’s thinking about it hard. Now’s our chance to go for the records.”

Hubert blinked.

“I mean, um, if you think it’s a good idea,” Bernadetta amended, taking her hands from the table to hold them close to her chest. “Maybe we should wait, make sure-”

“No, you’re right,” said Hubert, standing himself. “We can’t expect him to be down and out for any extended period of time. You can never count on someone sleeping when you expect them to. You have to strike when the iron is hot, and the bastard is distracted. Let’s go.”

Bernadetta jumped to herself, a determined little smile on her face, and together they strode out of the room, leaving Luka and a maid to the remains of nearly a complete eel pie.

Hubert led the way, even though he’d only been to the library once before, on their very first day here. Bernadetta pointed out the concealed servant stairway to him, but seemed to look to him for guidance.

“It’s not like you’re a stranger to sneaking around,” he said as they climbed the narrow wooden stairs of the eastern passage. “You used to catch _me_ off guard at Garreg Mach.”

She shushed him.

“Servant’s passages are literally designed to block noise from the main corridors,” Hubert reminded her.

She shushed him again, and he acquiesced, keeping his voice very low as he explained to her,

“Move as you normally would. Unnatural footsteps will stand out more than natural ones, if he happens to hear anything. Any idea what the records will look like, what they’d be labelled with?”

Bernadetta shook her head, and then thought.

“I guess the records might be in similar books across the years? So maybe start by looking for lots of the same thing? I can’t imagine they’d be too ornate…”

Hubert nodded, and they reached the door to the east wing proper.

“No talking from now on. Remember, keep your breathing and your steps as regular as you can manage. If it’s too much, tap my shoulder twice, and I’ll warp you to your room.”

Bernadetta nodded firmly. Her expression had gone from excited determination to something more serious, subdued. He hoped she wouldn’t have to pull the escape rope option he’d given her, but he meant what he said. Her safety was the most important part of this. He’d warp her all the way to Enbarr if she asked, but it was Bernadetta pushing open the door and stepping out into the hall, house-slippers hushed against the marble.

Hubert waited for her to take a few more steps and then followed, mimicking her gait on instinct. Technically that was a strategy for following people unnoticed, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to make their footprints sound more like one person’s heavy footfalls than a group wandering around. Or would that make them seem all the more suspicious, like someone with a goal, instead of an evening wanderer? Hubert swallowed, his own saliva like a bloody gong in his ears.

Bernadetta looked over her shoulder at him, eyes apprehensive, but she kept walking. He nodded to her, hoping it was reassuring and not the same awkward kind of expressions Hubert always found himself giving everyone. Their steps echoed against the marble. How fucking big was this house? The library door seem to loom ahead of them like a phantom in the dark, its huge frame daunting perspective itself, so that it felt like they weren’t getting any closer. Stalking in the dark was always more fun when there were guards to dodge or… take care of. Walking ever forward down an unmarked tunnel of stone, lined only by doors and no windows, it weighed on him. More than being in a crypt, which at least lingered with the heaviness of the love of the bereaved. More than being in a dungeon, which knew the heft of the sins it had witnessed.

The halls of Varley Manor were devoid of guilt and honour, empty of both action and abstinence, as if they knew their potential had not yet been fulfilled. As if they were waiting for something.

The muffled hush of the massive door opening beneath Bernadetta’s hands was the sweetest sound Hubert had heard all week, and he found himself speeding up without her gait to guide him, hungry for motion. She looked back at him, even more fearful now, and Hubert realised he was running. He slowed, and together they pushed the door closed, now close enough for Hubert to synch their breathing in step. And then they were alone in the sealed library. Only two doors lined the walls– the one they had entered through, and the one to the study. But, thankfully, between the bookshelves stood tall windows, letting in the moonlight that had eluded them in the corridor. Hubert shook his head. Back to business.

They stepped off as one, in synch both in their gait and their breath, walking abreast as they once had on the battlefield. Hubert felt his fingertips crackle with potential as they approached that wretched runway of a rug to the study, ready for a warp, a silencing spell, a Dark Spikes to crush the Count where he stood… Oddly, he sensed a similar movement in Bernadetta’s hands, firm by her sides. Three fingers flexed, the ring and middle-fingers together with the index finger kept separate, curling and then spreading out in an instant. An archer’s grip, loosing imaginary arrows.

They reached the door, and before Bernadetta even tried the handle, she reached into her hair and withdrew two bobby pins. He had expected lockpicks, or at least for her to fumble with the pins for a while. Instead, the door swung open in less than a minute. He raised his eyebrows, trying to look impressed, but from how she turned to the floor and ducked inside, he might had accidentally accused her of being a thief. Goddess damn it, this is what he got for shaving his eyebrows in a fit of mania at age 18 and refusing to admit it was a mistake.

Cursing himself internally, he followed her into the study, and then stopped immediately. There were no windows here. All the furnishings, along with Bernadetta, had disappeared into the gloom, and the sliver of moonlight coming through the door illuminated nothing but the edges of his boots. Shit.

With a click of his fingers, Hubert lit a tiny candle flame between his thumb and forefinger, which revealed nothing in detail, but at least sketched out the edges of the desk in the centre of the room and showed that the whole thing was lined with bookshelves. Hubert stepped closer to the wall, Bernadetta following him, and lifted his hand to better see the books. None of them had anything on the spine except for the Varley family crest. Maybe this was the record shelf, then?

“Oh, goddess,” Bernadetta breathed.

Hubert snapped his head around. Was it too much for her?

“Hubert,” she whispered. “ _They’re all the same_.”

Something in his arms went weak. He turned back around, held his flame up to the shelf to the right. The same, identical spines, unmarked but for the family emblem. Hubert’s heart began to pound as he moved to the right once again. More identical spines. He pulled one out at random with his free hand and held the ignited one above the cover. Nothing there but the rest either. Jamming the book against the shelf for leverage, he flipped it open with a few fingers. Thankfully, it had the year stamped on the opening page. Unfortunately, that year was 1163, which was of no use to anyone. He shoved it back on the shelf and pulled out its neighbour, hoping at least to figure out which direction they were organised in. His vision nearly blanked as he looked at this one’s title page. 1157.

He turned over his shoulder to find Bernadetta staring at the page with just as much horror as he felt. With shaking hands, Hubert closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, turning slowly as he realised just how many books they had to check. How many _unorganised_ books.

And then it all got so much worse.

There was a sound, gentle and distant, like the sweeping of a broom, and it came from the library.

“The door!” Hubert hissed and Bernadetta froze like a deer.

There was no time to close the study door, not when the Count was already in the library, already in full view, already probably seeing the stupid light Hubert held aloft. There was no time for anything except lurching to grab Bernadetta, letting the flames fall from his fingers and putting every last ounce of his magical energy into warping them away as fast as possible.

The two collapsed onto carpet gasping like caught fish, their brains grappling with being unmade and remade in far shorter time than was recommended. Hubert flexed his fingers and his toes, rolled his tongue around his mouth. He hadn’t left anything behind at least, but he couldn’t calm his racing heart. Bernadetta was doing no better, adrenaline sending her up and staggering around her room before she made it to her basin and dunked her head into cold water.

“Ugh!” she yelled, shaking her head as if she were a dog in the rain.

Something about being loud again after the incessant silence of the study made Hubert’s skin crawl, even though they were a full flight of stairs above the second floor where the Count stalked.

“Are you alright he rasped?”

Bernadetta flexed her own fingers and gave herself a once-over, looking over her back as if she expected to have had her ass spliced off.

“Yeah,” she said, and then nodded. “Yes, physically… I’m fine.”

“Shit,” Hubert muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“Are you okay?” Bernadetta asked, quickly returning to his side.

“Yeah,” Hubert muttered. “Just…” He pounded his fist against the floor, which didn’t do much, considering the thick carpet. “We were so close.”

“Yeah,” Bernadetta huffed, sinking to sit on her heels beside him. “But there were so many of them!”

“And shelved completely randomly,” spat Hubert. “What is the purpose of that?”

Bernadetta shrugged.

“Frankly I don’t think he even knows. Not like he’d ever be looking at them.” Her voice is bitter, even moreso than Hubert had expected. “Do we try again?”

It took him a second to parse her question.

“What, now?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well, whenever he’s out of there!” Bernadetta replied.

Hubert shook his head.

“It’s too dangerous. He might have seen the light, heard the warp spell, and he definitely saw the study door was left open. Even if he puts it down to his own carelessness, there will be doubt in his mind, especially since that _damned_ Johannes told him we were after the records.”

“Hey,” said Bernadetta, her voice brittle. “He had no choice. You have no idea what it’s like to live here.”

“I know,” muttered Hubert. “But we can’t go snooping again tonight. Maybe even not tomorrow night, depending on the bastard’s moods.”

“Ugh,” huffed Bernadetta. “He’s got no shortage of moods, alright.”

Hubert couldn’t help but smile.

“You did well at dinner this evening,” he croaked, finally lifting himself up to sit, instead of just lying on the floor.

“I had to,” said Bernadetta, and something about her voice told him that duty alone was indeed her entire answer.

“You’ll make a fine Countess,” Hubert said quietly, but Bernadetta just looked away.

Somewhere, a clock was ticking.

“You should rest,” Bernadetta said eventually. “I know how much warps can take out of you. I… Thank you.”

“Any time,” he said as he rose.

He wondered if he could ever make his promises as certain as those Bernadetta made to the people of Varley. At the very least, from the way she looked at him, he knew she believed him.

* * *

Edelgard stood motionless at the balcony railing, eyes on Enbarr yet unseeing. It was too cold to be out under the stars, even draped in her dressing gown and gripping a mug of tea, but she didn’t mind. It was better than pacing the palace halls, watching the hours slip from one past midnight, to two, to three. She hadn’t even tried to sleep, knowing how futile it would be. It wasn’t that her nightmares had worsened following her friends’ departure, but rather that she hadn’t even had the chance to get to them, so anxiously did she toss and turn beneath her sheets, her thoughts whirring too fast to let her drift off. She took a draught of the floral tea. Thank goodness the rebuilding situation had remained stable for the past few weeks – had she been forced to act on an emergency in this state, there was no telling what damage would be done to the future of Fódlan.

“You look absolutely miserable.”

She did not bother turning to face Ferdinand. She knew what he’d look like – pitying and pitiful all at once, just as miserable as she and infinitely worse at hiding it. Truth be told, she was nearly sick of looking at him. The two had been inseparable since the Varley party set off, both out of necessity, considering their roles in the state, but also out of an unspoken agreement to not let the other dine alone.

She sniffed, intending to begin a sarcastic retort, but caught a scent in the night air instead.

“You’re drinking coffee at three in the morning?” she asked.

Ferdinand took his place beside her at the stone railing, his elbow almost touching hers.

“Are you not?” he asked, looking down at her mug.

“No,” Edelgard replied, just shy of a snap. She looked down at her drink and then back to her Prime Minister. “This is a tisane. One of the ladies at the greenhouse recommended it to me.”

She looked at Ferdinand, and then at his coffee. He looked at her, and then at her herbal tea. Together, they turned their gaze back out over the emptiness of Enbarr, toward the north-east sky.

“You’re mocking me,” said Edelgard, after a moment’s silence.

“I have said nothing,” replied Ferdinand.

“You mock me in silence, then.”

“If it pleases Her Majesty,” muttered Ferdinand, who then took a deep swig of his coffee.

There was quiet once more. The warmth of her mug was setting her hands alight, an unpleasant tingling beginning where her fingertips met the enamel.

“You have my apologies,” Edelgard said, looking down into the blackness below.

“I understand,” said Ferdinand. “You have mine as well, should you require them.”

“There must be some use to put them to,” Edelgard replied with a wry smile.

There were words caught in the tangle of her tongue, things she wanted to say. But if she could not get them out perfectly, she would not be able to get them out at all.

“I am not good at this,” she managed eventually.

“The waiting?” asked Ferdinand.

“No,” she replied immediately. “Waiting I can do. Waiting I have done.” She closed her eyes, fought off memories of the greatest school for endurance one could ever face. “I meant the source of the impatience.”

Ferdinand raised his eyebrows, turning to look at her dead on.

“Don’t make me say it,” she snapped.

“I have no intention of forcing the Emperor’s hand,” said Ferdinand, but though his voice was conciliatory, his face was more like that of the Garreg Mach cats when they chanced upon a dozing fisher’s catch.

“I should be better at this,” she said, more to herself.

“Edelgard…”

“What?”

Ferdinand smiled at her, and one of the many tightly-bound cords that held her together slackened beneath his gaze. This really wasn’t fair.

“You ought to be nicer to yourself.”

It didn’t sound like a criticism. Sothis knew she’d gotten enough of those from Ferdinand over the years. It sounded more like a plea, and the realisation felt like a knife to her gut.

“I ought to be a lot of things,” she muttered.

Ferdinand sighed.

“Not like that,” he said, and now his tone sounded like the professor correcting an axe drill. “I meant…”

And for a moment they searched for the words together, Ferdinand’s eyes to the sky, while Edelgard fixed hers on the lights of the city ahead of her.

“She looks up to you, you know,” Ferdinand said.

“And so I cannot let her down,” Edelgard replied.

“I meant more that you have already landed yourself in her highest esteem,” Ferdinand continued.

“If I let her down-”

“Being vulnerable isn’t letting her down,” said Ferdinand. “Especially not letting yourself be vulnerable _to her_. If anything, it shows you trust her. Might give her a bit of a boost to her confidence. Give her the chance to act on feelings of her own.”

Edelgard looked at him and hated how clear it had to be, as though she had the words _what feelings?_ etched into her very eyeballs.

“Your Majesty! Your Excellency!”

She and Ferdinand whipped around as one, the crackle of Faith magic already surrounding Ferdinand as he prepared to protect his Emperor should the need arise. But rushing through the doorway from Edelgard’s quarters was not a panicked palace guard, but instead one of those strange few who were remarkable in the blandness of their appearance, the sort of person you would forget mere minutes after meeting them. One of Hubert’s agents, and from the look of him, one who had just ridden a long way.

“Word from Varley,” he announced.

And though Edelgard’s heart leapt to her chest as he reached into his satchel for the promised missives, she couldn’t miss the breathlessness of his voice, how his hair clung to his forehead in sweat.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the two envelopes he pressed into her hand. “Please, return to your quarters and rest. You have earnt it, after such dedication to service.”

“I must wait for your reply,” he said, even as he was handing two letters to Ferdinand.

Edelgard shook her head.

“The Vestra network is more than just one rider,” she said. “If I need to send an immediate response, there are others I may call upon. Please, rest now. I could not bear to see a servant of the empire injured from overwork.” 

Hubert’s agent bowed low.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” But before he turned away, he added, “If I may, I hope your tidings are good.”

She smiled that same strong smile she gave to her soldiers and servants alike.

“As do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update, huh? I don't particularly want to talk about it here, but I recently had to deal with something pretty awful _as well as_ the whole global pandemic that means I can't work until the libraries reopen. So if you feel like giving me a tip - and are in a position to do so, I mean it, we're all up the creek nowadays - I'd appreciate it if you could go to my twitter [ @commanderfreddy ](https://twitter.com/commanderfreddy). I've got a link in my bio there, and my pinned tweet is the anthology I was recently published in. I don't get royalties from that, but at this stage in my writing career (read: the very beginning) I live and die by good reviews lol. And of course, please talk to me on twitter! There's a reason I came back to this fic despite the absolute nightmare I've been going through, it's really a passion project of mine and if you want to talk about it or any of my ships or Deep Bernie Lore you made up to make up for IntSys' shitty handling of mental health, please talk to me!
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is very much welcome.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated **E** : _discussions of execution, graphic depiction of a child's murder, and small but graphic mentions of Edelgard's torture as a child.  
>  The most graphically violent paragraphs are toward the end, directly after two italicised paragraphs.  
> Bernadetta does not directly interact with her father in this chapter._
> 
> This is also where I introduce some Bernadetta lore that contradicts that which was established in Cindered Shadows, because I started writing this in November wtf it's been more than half a year.

Hubert had no idea how he’d be greeted in the little mining town of Unterwohnen. He wasn’t even exactly sure where it was – the working people of Varley Manor had only given him vague directions of “up and around” the mine he had visited yesterday, followed by some snaking hand movements.

“Sorry,” Mina had said. “The county isn’t exactly massive, and we’ve all lived here since we was born, so… None of us’ve ever really given directions.”

Hubert had sympathised, but now that he was over an hour into wandering the grey slopes of Varley on his own, doubts were beginning to creep in. Everyone had just assumed that since he had visited the mine yesterday, he’d be able to get back there no problem, but everything out here looked the same. He could have chosen the wrong trail half an hour ago and have no idea of it. The last time he’d been certain of his position was the intersection by the Manor, where he’d parted ways with Bernadetta, and the two of them had dropped their fiction of going out for a picnic. He hoped she’d be alright, investigating in the manor village. At the very least, though, she couldn’t be as lost as him.

He swivelled in the saddle, glaring over his shoulder as if he could glean the entire lay of the land if only he applied enough pressure. There was, of course, nothing there. He huffed and turned back around, scrutinising the horizon ahead of him with the same level of intensity, as if to save face. There was nothing there either, of course. Just scrubby bushes turning to wider patches of grass, and a lone tree appearing in the distance.

Wait. The journey yesterday had been completely devoid of plant life by the end. The mine was in a truly desolate area, surrounded by nothing but rock and the overhanging mountains. The mountains! Hubert’s head snapped to the left, where the Oghma Mountains now loomed. Goddess dammit, he was supposed to be riding directly toward them, not obliquely to the northeast. There was no denying it: he was lost, well and truly.

Hubert slumped in the saddle, his mind mocking him ceaselessly as he fished around in his saddlebags for the map of Varley he had brought from Enbarr. His horse continued its steady pace as he stared at the wretched thing. There was really very little on there – Varley Manor, of course (though the village 15 minutes from it received no mention), as well as the two major river ports under the Count’s jurisdiction. Most of the map was instead dedicated to marking out holy sites that gradually increased in concentration the closer they were to the Oghma Mountains, with Garreg Mach marked in the corner of the page.

 _Bloody church nonsense_.

Hubert’s lip curled, and only recognition of how expensive mapmaking was kept him from balling the parchment up and feeding it to his horse. Varley’s biggest mine –something of actual use and interest – wasn’t featured on the map, but it wasn’t too hard to find an approximation of its location now that Hubert remembered their direct mountain-bound trajectory, coupled with the big blank spot just south of the mountains on the map. With most – but not all – of the mountains now on his left, Hubert had to be somewhere just to the east of a cluster of shrines to minor saints. Great. Just the kind of landmark he’d been hoping for.

Pushing his bitterness aside, he packed up the map and drew his horse back toward the west. So many minor holy sites together had to indicate a settlement, and he wasn’t _too_ far from the mines, so perhaps he’d be able to find a lead on the elusive Silberschmied brothers somewhere amongst the stained glass and statues of Lamine and Gloucester. 

Ugh, Gloucester. Lorenz better have replied to Ferdinand’s invitation to spend Etherial Moon in Enbarr by the time this was all over. The last thing he wanted to deal with on top of rooting out a corrupt ruling class was his partner worrying about ambiguous dinner plans. Though, perhaps it would be nice, to worry about something frivolous and personal for once, instead of a dear friend’s abuse and the mismanagement of an entire county. He’d never admit it, but perhaps he even wished Gloucester would accept the invitation, and Hubert could spend Etherial Moon basking in the reflected glow of Ferdinand’s smile.

Of course, he wanted to make Ferdinand smile on his own, but that wasn’t always easy. Not when Hubert was so reticent to go public with their relationship. Ferdinand had always understood that, what with how fragile their new government was, but they always, always disagreed when it came to telling their friends. Ferdinand couldn’t understand Hubert’s reluctance, not when the Black Eagle Strike Force had all seen each other on the brink of death, had saved each other’s lives more times than they could count, had shared darkest hours and communal showers, when Dorothea had up and moved to Brigid to be with Petra after declaring her love mid-battle, when Caspar and Linhardt were inseparable, even now, in the wreckage of the new world.

And yet, Hubert still could not help but feel as if he were not included in that camaraderie. That was ridiculous, because at the very least he’d fought alongside them, he’d saved and been saved by his classmates just the same as everyone else. The distance was self-imposed. He knew how to impose nothing else. He’d always been nothing more than Edelgard’s left hand, the vehicle of all requisite unpleasantness associated with the throne. The idea of someone being friends with him just seemed… oxymoronic.

 _But Ferdinand likes you_.

He had to remind himself of that often, had to ask Ferdinand for permission to remind himself of that. That had been so damn embarrassing. But it had been nice, afterwards, when Ferdinand held him to his chest and ran his fingers through Hubert’s hair, when he had whispered that he loved him, and Hubert had reciprocated effortlessly for the very first time.

He can’t imagine that experience is in any way comparable to the friendship he could potentially share with the other Black Eagles.

 _But Edelgard likes you_.

A fallacious comparison, and he knew it. He and Edelgard were bound together in a pact stronger than blood or crests, woven by sheer determination and want of a better world. They weren’t so devoted to each other because they _liked_ each other… Though Hubert did like Edelgard. He looked up to her, and shouldered her burdens for fear of her being crushed just as much out of want to see them accomplished. And perhaps she liked him, in how she laughed at his bitter humour, how she asked him to braid her har in silence before bed, the two of them enjoying a repose only they could comprehend the cost of.

But Edelgard was his life’s sworn purpose. The Black Eagles had their own lives to tend to.

 _But Bernadetta likes you_.

Hubert found himself atop of a scraggly knoll, the once-again grassed plains of Varley stretching out before him. He had no time to refute that traitorous thought, not when avenues of opportunity had opened up beneath him in the form of little farmhouses and fields, goats dotted all along a vista patchworked by low stone walls. His horse took a bite of the grass beneath its hooves, and then shook its head, stamping the ground. Hubert couldn’t blame it – it didn’t look particularly appetising.

 _I said, Bernadetta likes you_.

Hubert snapped his hand up, as if to squash the thought like a bug, and kicked his horse back into action. There was smoke coming from one of the distant chimneys – at the very least, the occupants might be able to help him find the right road. The goats looked up with inscrutable eyes as he cantered past them, some of them continuing with their caprine business of chewing their cud and snuffling in each other’s ears, while others stared directly at him, those expressionless mottled pupils looking right into his soul.

Hubert’s fingernails dug halfmoons into the palm of his hands where he squeezed the reins tighter. He had to stop thinking about nonsense like goats and his relationship with Ferdinand – which wasn’t _nonsense_ , it just wasn’t…

He pursed his lips. He was going about this all the wrong way, and he knew it. Feeding into those same stubborn instincts that had kept him and Ferdinand apart for so long, the same automatic actions that kept him from connecting with his classmates, his _friends_. Just dismissing everything outright because it didn’t fit the kind of narrative he thought he was living. But wasn’t that all supposed to be over? They had won the war, Edelgard was Emperor, Those Who Slither In The Dark had been vanquished, and they were finally working to bring men like Count Varley to justice. Hubert was still the spymaster, still the slaughterer-in-chief, but that didn’t mean his job was _all_ blood and intrigue anymore. Surely he could be something else, too. Something on top of his more unsavoury duties.

He just had no idea what that could be.

“Hey!”

Hubert jolted so dramatically in his seat that he nearly tumbled to the rocky grass below. Thankfully his horse had been trained for far more urgent situations than surprise greetings and kept steady as it drew to a halt, letting Hubert swivel in the saddle to survey his surroundings.

The cry had come from over his right shoulder, where, about a hundred metres away from him, a teenage boy was sitting on one of the low stone fences he had seen all over the steppe. Scruffy and lanky, he looked to be of an age admittable to Garreg Mach, but Hubert had never been good at judging the benign facts of people. Whether or not they were carrying a knife he could figure within seconds, but things like heights and ages and genders were always trickier.

“Hello,” said Hubert, still sitting in the saddle like an awkward bird perched upon its nest. “Ah, I do hope I am not trespassing. I assure you I mean no ill intent, I merely… lost my way.”

The youth shrugged, hopped off the wall and started to approach.

“Not really sure who’s field this is, but no one’s gonna give a damn so long as you don’t kill a goat or nothin’.”

“Ah,” said Hubert. “That is heartening.” His brain finally caught up with all of the stranger’s sentence. “I take it then that you are also lost?”

The kid snorted.

“Nah,” he said. “My family lives down there-” he waved uselessly beyond Hubert, “but this is beyond our turf, so it don’t concern me.”

He had drawn level with Hubert’s horse and was giving him an intense look-over. Hubert couldn’t really blame him – there probably weren’t many men in double capes and torturer’s gloves riding through this quiet farmland. Remaining on the horse was probably only making him look more ridiculous, though, so he slid to the ground in a manoeuvre so awkward, it was likely sending Ferdinand shuddering all the way back in Enbarr.

“Hell of a get-up you got there,” said the teenager, cocking his head at Hubert’s outfit.

“I, ah… yes,” said Hubert, unsure if he was being insulted or flattered. “I apologise, I know I appear out of place, however, I assure you, I wish to be out of your way as soon as possible. If you could point me in the direction of-”

“Oh, I got it!” cried the boy, punching his palm in triumph. “You’re that noble guy who’s staying with the Count!”

The cold trickle of perception snaked down Hubert’s spine. But how was he supposed to deny that? There was no other explanation for a man of his status to be meandering through the fields of Varley.

“Indeed I am,” replied Hubert. “But I was not aware that word of my presence had spread so far.”

The kid gave a single, loud laugh.

“What else are we gonna talk about?” he asked. “Nothin’ new’s happened ‘round here since the war. Trust me, I ain’t that interested in your life, but I can’t lie, some fancy bloke showing up to court the Count’s daughter has got my aunts gabbling on like nothin’ else.”

Hubert paused, the unease in his gut tightening. So. It seemed the rumour of him being involved with Bernadetta in some kind of intimate fashion had spread far beyond Johannes’ imagination. Berndatta had been right – as long as they were a man and a woman standing beside each other, there would be talk. The question was, would he allow such talk to persist? It might prove useful in confounding the Count if he continued to keep his personal motives a secret, and yet he could not shake the look of sheer panic on Bernadetta’s face when she spoke of people assuming she belonged to a man.

Besides, Hubert was far more inclined to be honest to an ear-picking youth lounging on a fence than the creature that dwelled in the Manor.

“I’m afraid your aunts will have to find something else to gossip about,” Hubert replied, “For the Lady Bernadetta is my friend and colleague, but nothing more.”

“Good,” said the kid.

Out of all possible reactions, Hubert had not anticipated that. Did this scrappy teen have some kind of vendetta against his friend? Animosity toward the Varley family as a whole would make sense, and he supposed he couldn’t expect someone growing up on a farm to know the ins and outs of a noble family’s cycle of abuse…

The teen folded his arms awkwardly before elaborating.

“You oughtta stay away from her. She got some curse or something. My cousin used to run ‘round with her and he showed up dead.”

Hubert drew his shoulders up straight and directed his most withering gaze at the youth before him.

“I am sorry for your loss, but I am afraid I must suspect your cousin of telling tales. I fail to see how he could have been friends with Lady Bernadetta when she hasn’t been in Varley for over five years, and even then-”

“Yeah!” cried the kid. “It happened like ten years ago – I was just little. And he weren’t telling tales, I saw them together! I wanted to play with them too but they said I was just a baby, and I mean I were only five, but I do remember. I remember it all. You ain’t forget seeing someone die.”

Hubert stared at him for a moment, sizing up the scrawny teenager before him. This was… something else. The boy’s cousin could, of course, still have been lying, claiming some over-dressed merchant’s girl to be Bernadetta to impress his friends, but regardless of that, someone had still died. Years ago, when they were still but a child. Hubert couldn’t stand it. He could almost feel Edelgard shaking in his arms, her thin little wrists rubbed raw by shackles, screaming as the sunlight scalded her eyes.

Hubert sighed. This was not something he would be able to turn his back on.

“You’ve certainly captured my attention,” he said. “May I ask your name?”

“Dieter,” said Dieter. “Dieter Silberschmied.”

* * *

Bernadetta felt ridiculous riding a broad-shouldered warhorse into the manor village, but for some reason, the idea of dismounting felt equally as daunting. It seemed that no matter what she did, from the moment she parted from Hubert and passed the pillar box signpost, she was on display. She took a deep breath, tried to loosen her deathgrip on the reins.

 _You feel like you’re doing everything wrong because you’ve never been here. You were never supposed to be here_.

Bernadetta furrowed her brow at the voice. It was starting to sound less frantic as of late, but that didn’t necessarily mean it remarks were becoming any more correct. She had been to the village before, countless times, when she was small and daring and beneath her father’s notice. When between her lessons from her mother’s tutors, she could eke out moments for herself, instead of being subject to an education of an entirely different colour.

She didn’t remember that time well. Her memory as a whole, she suspected, tended not to work quite like it was supposed to – or, at least, not like others’ did. Some memories were so much _louder_ , more vivid than others, memories that demanded to be remembered, even when she tired of dwelling on the same miseries, even when miseries of the present demanded more attention. So she did not recall the village the same way she recalled Enbarr or Garreg Mach, collections of buildings with distinct functions and residents. Instead her recollections seemed more like the backdrop of a play, a jumble of stone and timber framing in the distance, while her focus was ever on the immediate – an ant crawling across a leaf, the blades of grass tickling up her shins, a face crinkled in laughter…

“Lady Bernadetta!”

Bernie yanked on her reins in surprise, her well-trained horse coming to an abrupt stop without a whinny, but nonetheless snorting at the shock as Bernie found herself trembling. Her head swivelled, embarrassingly twitchy, like a startled owl, as she searched for the source of the cry.

“What brings you down from the Manor?”

Luka. It was Luka the footman who was running up from behind her, waving with what seemed like genuine delight on his face.

“Oh…” said Bernadetta, swinging herself out of the saddle with a Bow Knight’s training that would never fade. “I could ask the same of you! I hope you won’t risk any retribution from my father for not being at work.”

“Oskar and Johannes are covering for me,” he replied. “With you and Minister von Vestra out for the day, they shouldn’t have too much to worry about. And I hope I can rely on your, uh, discretion, about me coming down for… personal reasons.”

“Oh, of course!” Bernie cried. “And, um, likewise.”

Luka smiled.

“Hubert was asking a lot of questions about some boys who work in the mines, yesterday,” he said. “I’d wager it’s them, what the two of you are out looking for?”

“That’s right,” said Bernadetta. “But… I’m guessing you don’t have any leads on the men known as the Silberschmied brothers?”

“Sorry,” said Luka with a shrug. “You know I’m stuck in the Manor nearly always – I’m hardly a wealth of gossip. But my nan sure is. You can find her and the other homebodies doin’ laundry in the well-house.”

“Oh, perfect!” cried Bernadetta, clasping her hands together. “Thank you, Luka. And… is there anything I can help you with? Whatever made you risk leaving the Manor while on duty has to be-”

“No, no, it’s no like emergency or anything,” said Luka with an awkward laugh. “Just, y’know…” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders as if trying to throw the topic off his back. “I’ll, um, let you get on with your day. Good luck!”

And before Bernadetta could apologise for overstepping, before she could ask if there was some longer-term issue he was saddled with, Luka gave a wave and ran back off in the direction he came from. She clutched her horse’s reins close to her heart. She’d done something wrong, she had to have. That wouldn’t have ended so awkwardly if she hadn’t overstepped somewhere. But, at the same time, she cared about Luka, about all of the people in Varley, and especially those who were in her father’s crosshairs. She couldn’t regret asking if he was okay, if he needed help, even if it had embarrassed him. Maybe there was a better way she could have phrased it, maybe she’d emphasised her status too much…

“Oh Goddess, this really is stupidly difficult,” she muttered to her horse.

Her horse sniffed in reply. Bernie gave her a vigorous rub to the neck.

“Alright, enough moping,” she said to both herself and the horse. “Let’s find you a place to tie up and see if we can sniff out that well-house.”

The manor village was not big enough to warrant a name, let alone streets more advanced than well-trudged dirt paths, formed by time and shoes instead of any kind of builder. Those who lived in the manor and its surrounds called it “the village”, and those who lived elsewhere included it in saying “the manor”. As such, it wasn’t particularly expansive. There were a couple of hitching posts outside various buildings, but the lack of horses confused Bernadetta until she watched a young child hitch a goat to the post outside the oven-house. Varley kids often had to watch goats for several days straight as a way to learn responsibility and balance their chores.

But where had she learned that? Her own education had been… something else.

“I feel sick,” she murmured to her horse. “That looks like a well-house, right?” she asked it, looking up at the low stone circle of a building in the middle of a cluster of houses. “Well, it has a water trough for you, at least.”

The horse didn’t respond, but at least seemed pleased to be left with some water and a feedbag as Bernadetta made her way to the heavy wooden door.

It was loud inside, and only made worse by the rounded walls of stone sending every sound echoing back and forth. Noises of sloshing water and the slap of wet fabric sent Bernie’s ears ringing, but it was all undercut by a low droning, a strange harmony that it took her a moment to realise was singing. The single-roomed building was devoid of furnishings except for the well opening in the centre, fenced with wood and filled to the brim, the well was crowded by the people of Varley and their laundry tubs. Sloshing water from the well with buckets and bowls into their soap-filled tubs, the Varley folk scrubbed their clothes furiously against laundry boards, before stringing them up on the lines lacing the roof and smacking droplets from them with birch boughs. All the while, they sang.

Bernadetta stood dumbfounded before this unexpected display of artistry. She’d never really heard singing outside a church before, and the choir at Garreg Mach had seemed so… professional. Untouchable in their talent. But here, where the rough voices of old women mingled with the shrill squawks of children, the music took on a very different kind of beauty. For a moment, Bernadetta let herself stand in the doorway and feel nostalgia for a life she had never lived.

“Seiros’s tits! It’s the Lady Varley!”

Bernadetta – along with half the room – jumped at the outburst, and everything fell horribly silent. No more singing, no more washing. Just naked eyes staring at her – some in alarm, some in confusion, others just staring, their thoughts utterly inscrutable. She rasped a breath through her tightened throat. Why hadn’t she realised how difficult this would be? There were so many people here and she didn’t know any of them… and they all had just cause to hate her family, to distrust her, to kick her out of the village-

“Lady Bernadetta,” a middle-aged woman gasped. “How did you survive?”

Now that was not a question she had expected to be asked.

“I…” She swallowed. “I was sent to a military academy a year before the war broke out. I met Her Imperial Majesty there, and served in her Strike Force. While I fought on the front lines, I could always take shelter in her fortified-

“Not the _war_ ,” someone else replied. “How did you survive… y’know. Him?”

The expressions on the staring faces were starting to grow clear. There was still a great deal of confusion, but among them stood people emitting nothing but concern and pity.

“Oh,” said Bernadetta.

They wanted to hear about her father. Of course they did. It was a fair enough question. For those who did not know of her departure to Garreg Mach, it must have looked as though she had died. Even if they had heard of her schooling, it did sound like an excuse, now that she thought about it. It would have been so easy for her father to finally snap, do away with her the way she knew he always wanted to, and then claim she had gone off to boarding school. It was almost too perfect. How could she be sure that he hadn’t, that all this – all of her burgeoning confidence, the political change finally coming to Fódlan, the fact that she had people willing to tolerate her now – how could she be sure it wasn’t some wild dying dream?

“Alright, that’s enough,” a gruff voice cut through the crowd. “I don’t walk up to your daughter and ask her to recount every bad thing that happened to _her_.”

An elderly woman was shuffling forward from the back of the crowd, unafraid to use her elbows in order to do so.

“It’s a fair question,” the previous asker snapped. “We all thought… _You_ thought…”

“Well obviously the bastard _didn’t_ off the poor wee thing, now did he?” The woman had made her way to the front of the crowd and now turned her eyes from her neighbour to Bernadetta, a steel-coloured gaze piercing right to Bernadetta’s soul. “Whatever the story may be, she’s here now. And, I presume, returning to the belly of the beast for a good reason.”

“Yes,” said Bernadetta, her voice suddenly barely more than a whisper. She cleared her throat, and hated how unprofessional it must have made her seem. “I’m here to… to figure out what’s going on , and finally sort things out for Varley.”

A younger woman, likely close to Bernadetta’s own age, folded her arms and looked at Bernie with some scrutiny. Bernie couldn’t begrudge her this suspicion – she likely wasn’t old enough to know of how Bernadetta had faced her father’s wrath the same way the people had. And even if she did know, it wasn’t as if Bernadetta had done much anything to prove herself to the people of Varley yet.

“And what exactly does ‘sorting things out’ look like to you, Your Ladyship?” she asked stiffly.

Bernadetta closed her eyes, let herself breathe for a moment. She knew the answer to that, had known the answer ever since that day down in the crypt, where even the idea of returning to Varley was enough to send her screaming.

“I think I’m going to kill my father.”

* * *

Dieter Silberschmied lived with his mother, her siblings, their children and his own three siblings in a home that could only be described as “meandering”. Built around a single-room wooden shack, the Silberschmied family home was a maze of extra rooms cobbled onto existing ones, made of anything the family could get their hands on, from shale to logs to clay. Hubert did his best not to stare at the ill-fitting doors or the hide-paned windows as he sat in that central room of bare wood and waited for the Widow Silberschmied to finish chewing out her son.

“-couldn’t have given me _some_ warning?” she was hissing as the pair huddled beside the cast iron wood stove. Hubert sat dutifully at their table, desperately hoping a cat or elderly hound would emerge so he could find something to fix his attention to.

“I didn’t know he was gonna show up!” Dieter was not as skilled at keeping his voice down as his mother was.

“You could have run ahead-”

“He’d already gotten lost once, I didn’t wanna leave- _Ow_!” Dieter yelped.

“Okay, what you’re not gonna do is talk back to me in front of an Imperial Minister, hm?”

She was starting to sound near-frantic. Hubert put his hands on the table and then a second later let them drop back to his lap. He didn’t want to see a child get chewed out for a situation he had no control over, but at the same time he wasn’t so stupid as to go barging into an argument between mother and son.

“Just…” sighed the widow. “Go put some tea on. And don’t _say_ anything!”

That got Hubert’s ears twitching. Did the Silberschmied family truly have something to hide? Or was she merely overly cautious of Hubert’s company?

“Minister von Vestra,” she declared, stepping out from behind the stove to sweep a deep and cautious curtsey. “I really must apologise for my son.”

Behind her, Dieter rolled his eyes as he fetched a kettle from the roof rack.

“There’s really no need,” replied Hubert. “Dieter was a sincere help, and more than willing to discuss some matters I’ve been investigating for some time.”

The widow’s eyebrows shot up.

“Investigating?” she asked, voice suddenly squeaky.

“Ah, please don’t misunderstand me,” Hubert said, already feeling like he’d fucked this all up beyond repair. “Dieter hasn’t done anything wrong. Indeed, I don’t believe any of your family have done anything they shouldn’t have, though I must be frank with you-”

“Oh Goddess, what has Mikah done now?” Mrs Silberschmied whispered to the palm laid across her face.

“-Your surname was mentioned when I was investigating the mining operations of Count Varley.”

The widow’s brow furrowed, her hand falling from her face as she assumed a more defensive position, arms crossed.

“My family has worked in the Varley mines for generations, and some of my husband’s family have joined us in doing so after I wed. We take our role in Varley’s industry very seriously, so whatever you have heard about our mining ventures that requires “investigation”, I assure you, it poses no threat to the Count Varley or his own digging operations.”

Ah.

“I fear I should have explained this earlier to avoid any of the undue stress I have now burdened you with,” said Hubert. “I am not here on behalf of Count Varley.” He twisted the Imperial Signet Ring from his left hand and presented it to Mrs. Silberschmied. “I am investigating him on behalf of Her Imperial Majesty, Emperor Edelgard.”

The widow peered down at the ring, clearly wanting to take a closer look, but resolutely keeping her hands tucked by her torso out of fear of overstepping.

“Mighty bold of you to admit to investigating the Count to one of his own subjects,” she murmured, unafraid to meet Hubert’s eyes.

“It is precisely because of his subjects that I have come to investigate him,” replied Hubert, meeting her gaze as he returned the ring to his finger. “The Crown has reason to suspect that Manfred von Varley has been an extremely ineffective – if not outright malicious – steward of his territory. I intend to gather evidence as to ascertain whether this is the case.”

“And you think my boys are involved in this… malfeasance?”

Hubert quirked an eyebrow, and then something fell into place.

“You knew the Countess Jania,” he said.

The widow balked, blood rushing from her face.

“How did you know that?” she breathed. “That was so long ago…”

“You’ve quite a specific vocabulary – not that I mean any offence to your neighbours, but I doubt they would have found reason to learn the word ‘malfeasance’ in a life of goatherding and mining. I also have reason to believe that the operation your family name was mentioned in conjunction with was started by Countess Jania. Plus… you had no further questions about the Imperial Signet Ring. But, most importantly, your nephew knew the Lady Bernadetta when she was a child.”

The widow Silberschmied’s blanche had turned to a flush and a finger was tapping against her arm awkwardly.

“Well. I suppose I can tell why the Emperor sent you of all people to conduct an investigation,” she said, before whipping back to look at her son by the stove. “Are you done with the tea, dear?”

“It’ still gotta boil, Mum,” replied Dieter.

“No use in you hanging around like dried garlic, then,” the widow replied. “Go out help your auntie with that fence, I’ll do the tea.”

“But-” began Dieter, eyes flickering to Hubert.

“No buts!” she replied, snapping her apron toward her son. “Though, if you finish fixing the fence early, you can have the rest of the afternoon to do as you please.”

Dieter rolled his eyes.

“Alright, _fine_ ,” he drawled, but made sure to give his mother a mock-punch in the shoulder and receive one in reply before he made his way out the door.

Hubert felt his heart grow heavy, a kind of bitter false-nostalgia settling in his bones. His own relationship with his parents had been… different.

“Right,” said the widow, drawing out the chair next to Hubert and plopping herself into it. “Looks like we have some things to talk about while the kettle boils.”

* * *

Bernadetta’s declaration of patricide was better received by this crowd than any other she’d encountered, unless the Black Eagles counted as a crowd, because disposing of shitty fathers was something of their signature move. The young lady who’d questioned her was gracious – or shocked – enough to shut up, and the elderly woman who’d defended her had come a little closer, a gentle smile on her face.

“Do you need an alibi, my dear?” she asked. “We’d be more than happy to host a town meeting and claim you were there while you take care of business.”

“Oh!” cried Bernadtta. Goddess, she was… ready to go. “That’s incredibly nice of you, wow. Hah. And I don’t even know your name!”

“That’s probably for the best, considering I just offered to help cover up a murder,” smiled the elderly woman.

Bernadetta laughed awkwardly again.

“You’re scaring her, Auntie,” said a man a little older than Bernadetta with a smile. “She did only say she _thought_ she was gonna kill the old cunt.”

Oh _wow_ , there sure was a lot of support for Bernie pulling out a knife and just ending it all right away, huh! She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

“I was actually thinking about going about it in a more… legally robust manner,” squeaked Bernie.

“Legal murder, huh?” said the questioning girl from earlier. “The rich _do_ have it good.”

“No kidding,” murmured Bernadetta.

She didn’t know the details, but she did know _something_ had happened to Edelgard and her family when she was little, and all of it had not only been “legal”, but under the direct auspices of the Prime Minister.

“But I was thinking something more like an execution,” she added.

That got a few laughs.

“That’s nice, dear,” said the elderly lady, “But I’m afraid it might not be the most realistic approach. Count Varley _is_ the law, here.”

“Here, yes,” said Bernadetta. “Which is why I am here not just as his daughter, but as an agent of the Emperor.”

“The _Emperor_ gives enough of a shit about Varley to send an investigation here?” someone asked. “We’re not exactly important.”

“But of course you are,” replied Bernadetta immediately. “You’re citizens of the Empire.”

The young woman barked a laugh.

“Yeah, sure, no government without the governed and all that,” she said, flapping a hand as if to wave the decades-old propaganda slogan away. “But no _other_ Emperor has actually given a shit about us or any of the other folk of the land. News might be slow to get here, but we did all learn about Nuvelle, _eventually_. I suggest you ask yourself just what exactly the Emperor stands to get out of this.”

A cold hand began to close around Bernadetta’s heart. But no, she had to trust Edelgard, she _knew_ how much Edelgard despised those who hurt children, who caused needless suffering. Though, at the same time, her tight throat wasn’t about to let her just blurt out all of Edelgard’s suffering to a crowd of people she’d never met. There had to be a different way to handle this…

“I know exactly what she’s getting out of this,” Bernadetta replied. “Now that my mother’s gone, the death of my father would mean Varley becomes mine. And Edelgard… knows me. I owe her a lot, I suppose. She’d much prefer to see the county in the hands of someone she can trust, rather than my father.”

“Someone she can control, you mean,” the young woman retorted.

“No,” said Bernadetta, very quietly. “I think you heard me the first time.”

A look of impotent frustration crossed her debator’s face, and Bernadetta felt a sudden urge of pity. Was it really any surprise the people of Varley were reluctant to put their hope in anything?

“I appreciate your caution,” said Bernadetta. “And… your bravery, being willing to stand up to me like that. I can tell you really care about what happens to your people.”

“ _Well_ ,” huffed the girl with a tense shrug of her shoulders. “What’s the worst you could do to me? Have me hanged by the manor gates as a warning? Yawn.”

Bernadetta cracked a little smile at her humour, so similar to Hubert’s.

“I’d never do that to… anyone, really.” She thought for a moment. “I’m not afraid to kill. Seiros knows I’ve done it many times over. Kinda comes with being on the front lines of a war. But I’d like to see my father as the last life I need end. I’d like to see all of you live long, fruitful lives, and if you end up working as a domestic, it should be because you’re good at cooking, or you find cleaning satisfying, or you like organising things. And it should be for each other – like how you’re all helping each other with your laundry, here. Not for some toad in a castle that does nothing but trade investments on shipping companies until he finds someone who can ship the rarest fish and the ugliest clock, or whatever it is he does when he’s not screaming at me. But I know I can’t do that without your help. I’m not stupid, I know I’ve been away for years, and even when I did live here, I was sheltered.”

Her breath caught.

“Perhaps more sheltered than anyone else I’ve ever known. Before I ask for your assistance, though, I want to make it clear to you I’m not doing this in pursuit of my own power. I’ve _had_ power – I’ve sat on war councils and choked the life from men screaming for mercy, and I hated it. I hate it, being the one to decide someone else’s fate. So, I… when the time comes for me to be nominated as the successor to Varley, I might not be the kind of countess my predecessors were.” She took a deep breath. “I might not decide to become a countess at all.”

“We can’t _not_ have a countess,” snapped the girl. “If we don’t have some noble here constantly nattering at Enbarr, the Crown will completely forget about us.”

“I’d like to think better of Edelgard than that, but you do have a point,” Bernadetta quickly added. “If nothing else, the county position is an important go-between for the people and the government….”

“Stop badgering her about a position she hasn’t even landed yet,” the old lady admonished. “Plenty of time to talk about all that once we’ve wetted the earth with the Count’s blood.”

Bernadetta tried not to react to that.

“But, my dear, I believe you came here to ask for help, did you not?” continued the old lady.

“Yes,” said Bernadetta, and then, realising the conversation was back in her hands, continued. “I did! In order to have someone executed, you first have to prove them guilty of a crime. At least, that’s the just way to do things.”

She looked over at the criticising young woman, ready for a retort, but an older man had placed his hand on her shoulder, probably not keen to see his niece or whoever get reprimanded for repeatedly interrupting a noblewoman. That thought brought Bernie more melancholy than she had expected. The young lady had spoken true. She deserved to be listened to.

“So,” Bernadetta said, forcing herself to focus, “I’m attempting to prove that my father has been… malicious in his running of Varley. Using funds and other resources for his personal gain, denying payment to those in his employment-”

“Oh, that’s not gonna be hard to prove.”

Bernadetta automatically looked to her sharp-witted critic from earlier, but the voice undeniably belonged to the older lady.

“The Count owes my boy Luka more money than he’s paid him in the past two years,” she continued, an unprecedented bitterness in her voice. “My daughter may keep us in bread, but it’s the dignity of the matter. My grandson waits on him, hand and foot.”

“I know,” said Bernadetta. “I do hope I’ll be able to rely on your testimony…”

“Testimony? Hah!” cried the old woman. “Well, sure, dear! It’s up to you to find a judge who’ll give me the time of day, though. Lordy me, a milkmaid testifying before court. Whatever will you think of next?”

Bernadetta swallowed her sudden embarrassment, glad that most of the crowd had gone back to their laundry, or were at least pretending to do so.

“So, um, I’m sure you understand, then, the need for more physical evidence,” she continued, her shaking hands in tight fists by her sides. “My-”

Wait, fuck, how was she going to refer to Hubert? “My friend” felt entirely too forward, not to mention the kinds of conclusions people like Johannes liked to jump to. “My colleague” rather underplayed his contributions to the Empire. “My agent” sounded like she was usurping Edelgard’s power, as Hubert was, before anything else, Edelgard’s. But she couldn’t just say “Minister von Vestra” or “an Imperial agent” because she’d already started to say “my” and if she tried to pivot away from that, they’d all notice and then they’d _definitely_ think there was something she was hiding and _oh no she’d already spent way too long thinking about it_.

“My associate-” _oh Goddess what the fuck was that_ “-has investigated the northern iron mines and found an unregistered mining operation occurring concurrent with the ore mine.”

“Oh yeah, the yellow stuff,” said the man holding the sharp girl back.

“I…” Bernadetta blinked. “Yes. We… We’re not sure what he’s doing with it. He could be colluding with enemies of the Empire, shipping them weapons materials, but he also could just be trying to make some extra money on the side. It could also be…” _… a remnant of my mother’s reign_.

Bernadetta didn’t say that, though. Instead she kept her eyes on the plain woollen dresses before her, and powered on.

“But since records of the mine have been kept so scarce, we have no idea whether it’s benign or not. Thus far, the only information we have is that the mined… stuff… is transported by people known as the Silberschmied brothers.”

“Yeah,” said the snippy girl. “Mikah and Bartl, everyone knows them. But they’re not exactly tactical geniuses – all they do is drive the wagon.”

“That’s plenty!” cried Bernadetta. “Right now, all I need to know is _where_ they drive the wagon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, where they take the stuff, after it’s been mined. Where it’s being stored or traded or whatever.”

The girl raised her eyebrows and lips in a kind of confused sneer.

“That’s hardly a secret, though,” she said. “And I dunno how you wouldn’t know it already. It all just goes to the Manor.”

Bernadetta was back in the saddle in an instant. Hands shaking and whole body buzzing, she didn’t feel like she was in control anymore. She was just along for the ride, watching through her eyes as startled villagers parted for her horse, her thighs and arms urging it ever faster, back to the Manor.

The Manor, the Manor, it all just goes to the Manor. She was going to do it. She was going to crack open some kind of conspiracy. An illegal substance smuggling ring overseen by her father, a source for all his indulgent spending and sink for all the time he should have been spending on running the County.

Then she recalled dinner the night before, and how startled he’d been to hear talk of the secondary mine. Maybe it wasn’t his at all. Maybe it _was_ one of her mother’s operations, still working to ensure the evolution of science. Maybe she’d find a hidden laboratory, staffed by secret Sorcery Engineers, turned away from the Vestra Corps due to their unethical practices. That would bad, technically, but Seiros! To be able to speak with someone who had known her mother, who had worked with her, who understood just what she’d been thinking about Bernadetta all this damned time.

Her horse, starting to foam with exertion, skittered to the Varley stables, where heavy hoofbeats had summonded the to grooms to meet them.

“Take good care of her,” Bernie cried as she leapt from the saddle, tossing the grooms her reins. “And, quick, where does the Manor receive deliveries of big mining wagons?”

“Um, out the back? There’s a cellar door that opens to a ramp-”

“Great!” Bernie cried, and sprinted off again.

What if the stuff being mined was the same stuff that had ruined Johanes’s face, and she was walking into similar damage herself? She didn’t care. A more important question was, what if it _wasn’t_ the stuff that had hurt Johannes, and instead it was just one of many experiments being conducted under Varley Manor. The Church had been so strict in their regulations on what was considered ethical and holy science, no wonder Those Who Slither had gotten such a leg up on the people of Fódlan. Maybe her mother had created something to finally rival that eviscerated power, something that fed on yellow stuff, the way a person needed food or a furnace coal.

There was, indeed, a humped out cellar door behind the manor. A padlock and chain bound the double doors from opening, but Bernadetta’s lockpicking set took care of that in no time, even if her fingers trembled and her ears were filled with an anxious buzzing. It was dark beyond the doors, just a slope of dirt down into nothingness. Bernadetta plunged on regardless.

She lost all sight almost immediately, only knowing she was still going straight ahead from her hand brushing the wall beside her. Still, she knew enough of the Sorcery Engineers from Hubert to know that they tended to prefer magical lighting over fire in order to prevent any reactions to heat or smoke particles. The lighting for their chambers, like Hubert’s own at the palace, tended to react to human presence, so all Bernadetta had to do was keep putting on foot in front of the other, let her hand drag across the stone walls, over a kind of open gate, and ever deeper into the abyss.

An eerie green light filled her vision abruptly, and Bernie lifted her hand to her eyes, but not before feeling a tightening in her chest. She remembered that colour so vividly. Not in what it illuminated, but in what emotions it stirred. Anticipation. Wonder. Desperation. Admiration. An unquenchable desire to impress. For the first time in over six years, Bernadetta felt as if she was standing in the presence of her mother.

Too eager to let her eyes adjust to the bright glow, she pulled her hand away and forced herself to look. She was standing in a massive chamber – one with a roof so high she must have walked further underground than she had expected. Columned and sculpted marble walls and an inwardly domed ceiling from which the green light emanated finished the room.

The whole place clearly had not been used in years.

A slow sort of disbelieving panic started to run through Bernadetta’s bones. All around her were massive mounds of the raw yellow stuff, little chunks of it forming hills and mountains sloughing against the walls, but none of it had been touched. It was still blocky from the mines, inert and neglected. The same could be said of the walls and floors, dusty and dirty like nothing her mother had ever let become.

She moved closer, pulled her gloves on and wound her scarf around her mouth, in case it was dangerous, despite the lack of sounds or smells or protective containment.

There was dust on the blocks.

Unexpected tears forced their way into Bernadetta’s eyes, but she pushed them away like they were obstacles to the truth. Without even knowing what she was looking for, she began running around the great chasm of a room, frantic and furious, sweating against her scarf. The mounds of yellow stuff rose and fell like natural mountains, with valleys and fjords of bare stone floor between them, valleys that Bernadetta would desperately race down, only to find them ending in yet more mineral, or merely the walls of the chamber itself.

There was nothing there. No furniture. No lab equipment. No records. And it sure as hell wasn’t getting sold, for the only spots that weren’t covered in increasingly thick layers of dust were the mounds right by the entrance, where no doubt the new deliveries were made. Goddess damn it, _why_ were there still deliveries?

Bernadetta’s breath rattled like a dying man’s when she spotted a niche in the back wall. It was the same kind of seam that marked the servants entrances upstairs, in the manor proper. Finally, a secret passage! Bernie slipped her hand into the gap, found the little inset handle, and pushed away the thin sliding sheet of stone, to find herself in exactly a staircase identical to the one she had climbed with Hubert last night. Her breath caught again, this time in hope instead of despair.

Her hand trailed along the wall again, marking passage only to herself, as she raced up the steep spiral, lungs growing tight with exertion. Dear Seiros, she wanted to find a secret laboratory. Yes, finding some hidden sales parlour belonging to her father would help further incriminate him, but damn it, those rocks weren’t getting shipped out anywhere, and its not like anyone was using them around here. It had to belong to her mother. It had to have been her idea. There had to be some fucking trace of the person Countess Jania was, what she wanted to do, to be, to accomplish.

Who she wanted her daughter to be. 

The exit door was at the top of the staircase. No other entranceways were anywhere along the stairs. The lock was stiff, brittle from disuse, but Bernadetta could coax it open. She couldn’t accept anything else. The handle slipped and so did Bernadetta’s knees as she pushed it open, forced herself through the door, and found herself standing in a bedroom.

Hubert’s bedroom.

Her mother’s bedroom, once.

Just as denuded as it had been yesterday. She couldn’t swallow, could barely stand.

“No,” she found herself saying, so much frustration and desperation coming out in nothing more than a whimper.

This couldn’t be it. That couldn’t be all of it. He couldn’t have gotten rid of everything she had. There had to be some hidden lab, encoded diary…

There wasn’t, and Bernadetta knew it.

She was kneeling on the carpet and wasn’t sure when she’d ended up down there. There wasn’t going to be some secret project that would change everything, not some entombed lab assistant who’d tell her anything. There wasn’t a fucking puzzle to solve that would lead her to the prize of being known. Her mother was dead and that was the end of it. She’d needed the materials for something and kept the digging a secret, the way she did with everything. When she died, no one with any power had known about the mine, so they just kept going. Just kept delivering. No one was using that yellow stuff anymore. It was just a remnant of a time when Countess Jania had walked among the living. That weekly wagon coming down from the mines was her mother’s ghost, the last trace of her will on the mortal plane.

That was all Bernadetta was going to get.

* * *

Hubert couldn’t keep up with himself as he returned to the Manor. His mind kept distracting him with newly-learnt facts, interpretations too horrifying or fascinating to ignore. He gave the grooms a single nod as he handed over the reins, mulling over the facts according to Mrs Nele Silberschmied. The mine had been, as Hubert suspected, a personal project of Countess Jania. A source of raw sulphur – something Hubert hadn’t even known existed in inert, subterranean form. The sulphur used by the Vestra Sorcery Engineers had been sourced from volcanic regions – not Ailell, being outside their traditional territory and unbearable, to boot, but many of the smaller geiser and spring locations south of Enbarr. It was no wonder to him Jania had demanded a mine sunk the second she found mineral sulphur: the extraction process seemed infinitely safer and more productive than vulcan-sourcing.

He had to keep his mind focused on the infrastructure and chemistry to keep the dread of the Silberschmied family history at bay.

He would address all that unpleasantness later, after changing out of his riding clothes, after collecting thoughts in order to best present them to Bernadetta.

But there would be no time for recouping after the journey, for opening his bedroom door revealed Bernadetta to be within. She wasn’t doing anything. Not going through his belongings or taking a nap on his bed or inspecting his magical wards (which he’d precluded her from, naturally). She was just standing there, in the centre of the room. Behind her stood an open door, the little opening to the servant’s passage Hubert had found and immediately dismissed upon his arrival. But from the utterly blank look on her face, perhaps something more sinister had been lurking in there than his scrying had revealed.

“Hello,” he said.

Bernadetta did not startle, did not even look up to meet his eyes.

“Hi,” she said.

Hubert followed her gaze and confirmed that, no, she wasn’t looking at anything in particular. She just seemed… hollow. Hubert swallowed. He had to be careful here. Had to be gentle with her without being patronising. Had to show he cared without startling her. Had to-

“It’s okay,” said Bernadetta, giving a small and impotent shrug. “Nothing bad happened.”

“Well, that’s always nice to hear,” said Hubert, finally stepping into his room to take a seat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, somewhat in Bernadetta’s line of sight but not directly in front of her. “Would you like to discuss what _did_ happen?” he asked.

Bernadetta was quiet.

“I don’t know,” she said eventually. “I don’t know if I want to talk about it, a-and I don’t even know if anything happened, anyway.”

Hubert nodded, though he had no idea what that could mean. He was silent, let Bernadetta run through her thoughts. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he sat there in silence for the rest of the night. Better than leaving Bernadetta alone in this strange, fragile state, at least.

“I think-” she began after a moment, and then faltered. He looked to her, and found a look on her face that made his heart ache. She looked as though she was watching the world fall apart.

“I don’t know,” she said again. “I was hoping for something that didn’t make sense. I don’t know why I’m so upset that it didn’t turn out to be true when it never could have.”

“I…” said Hubert, and then belatedly wondered if Bernadetta was in any sort of mood to receive his intel. But, then again, he had nothing else to give. “I managed to confirm that the mine was the Countess’s idea.”

“Yeah,” said Bernadetta. And then she let out a snort with as much vitriol as Hubert’s horse had managed earlier, shaking her head in a similar fashion, too. “I think I was hoping that my mother would… still be alive, somehow. That if I figured out what was going on with the mine and her yellow stuff that I’d, like, uncover her still tinkering away in a secret lab somewhere, just waiting for me to jump through enough hoops to finally be worthy of her attention.” Bernadetta’s face seemed to squeeze in on itself. “So stupid.”

Hubert rose from his chair and came to stand beside her. She folded her arms and then seemed to hate it, sending her hands to ball in her pockets instead.

“From when I was about nine onwards,” Hubert began, “I was convinced that my father wasn’t _actually_ my father, and that I had some real father out there who would one day show up and whisk me away to work on some secret operation that was keeping the Empire running. I had this whole storyline in my head about how my mother was a double agent or something, and my father was the ultimate enemy of the royal family, secretly working against them from his position as a Minister. That much turned out to be true, unfortunately, even if he turned out to be less of a mastermind and more of just a greedy bastard, jumping on whatever opportunity he found himself presented with.

“But, the point is, I knew my father was a bad person, and yet I still hungered for paternal approval. I wanted everything to be a sham so that I could somehow figure out how to get that approval while still being able to disavow my father’s greed and cruelty. But I didn’t want just anyone’s approval. I didn’t want a mentor or even the Emperor to smile on me. I wanted my _father_ to be proud of me, even while I hated Marquis Vestra, the man. So I found myself hoping for an impossible situation, because any reality was too hard to face.”

Bernadetta folded her arms again, shrinking in on herself.

“I knew I was acting like a child,” she muttered.

Hubert tensed.

“That wasn’t what I was trying to say,” he said.

“ _Ugh_ ,” groaned Bernadetta, her face landing in her palms with an unpleasant smack.

“I just wanted you to know that I understand why you would hope such a thing, despite how impossible you might know it to be,” Hubert added. He was really cocking this up. “That I wouldn’t look down on you for such a hope.”

“How am I supposed to…” Bernadetta trailed off, wiping at her face with more force than looked comfortable. “I’m just supposed to live like this? She made me, and I’ll never know what she thought of me. If I got any of it right. If I’m the person I’m supposed to be.”

She sighed viciously, as if she were trying to spit out the air.

“I’m sorry, Hubert,” she said, voice suddenly quiet again. “I’ll… go to bed.”

Hubert nodded, though he found himself only growing more nervous.

“Please,” he said, and then reconsidered his phrasing. “May I accompany you? You… look close to fainting.”

Bernadetta sighed again, and he felt like a dick for pointing out how upset she was. But then she nodded, and the two of them made their way up to her tower room, Hubert not holding her arm, but hovering by her side, ready to catch her at any moment. He watched her out the corner of his eyes, how she seemed startled by the sunset through the windows, as though she had been hovering lost in his bedroom for a good while. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she.

But when they made it to the door of her bedroom, Bernadetta did not enter. She stood and pulled at her fingers, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Would you…” she began, and seemed to choke on herself. “Can you stay? I know it doesn’t make sense, but I feel like if I’m alone, I’ll end up fading away.”

Hubert blinked.

“Of course,” he replied.

Once in her room, Bernadetta went to lie down on the bed immediately, stiff as a board on her back, still fully dressed. Hubert hovered over her nervously, feeling more like an undertaker than a concerned friend.

“I feel ridiculous,” she muttered after a moment.

“I promise, I feel much more the fool,” said Hubert.

Bernadetta gave a dry snort of a laugh, her expression as flat and emotionless as ever.

“You can lie down, too, y’know,” she said. “Or you can go. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” said Hubert.

He removed his riding boots and coat and laid down beside Bernadetta, as awkwardly and gingerly as she had, as though the bed were a boat he was bound to rock.

Outside, the sun dimmed slowly, wind of the steppe blustering against the Manor, making the windowpanes rattle. Hubert kept his eyes on the ceiling, watching a long-abandoned cobweb tremble in the atmosphere.

“I didn’t expect this to be a problem I’d have,” Bernadetta said eventually. “I barely interacted with my mother, so I thought that meant I didn’t care. But I did care, and now I still care, but she’s gone. Before I could even figure out what I felt about her, let alone what she thought of me.”

Hubert hummed low, unsure of what to say, yet a sympathetic twist in his stomach all the same.

“I’d like to say she was proud of you,” he said after a moment of silence. “But I didn’t know her well enough to know if that was true. And you deserve only the truth.”

“Thank you,” mumbled Bernadetta. And then, “I… found where the yellow stuff was being delivered.”

“It’s sulphur,” said Hubert. “The Sorcery Engineers use it for corrosive effects, but this is the first time I’ve found a _mine_ of it. But where’s it end up?”

“Here,” said Bernadetta. “That staircase in your room leads down to a big cellar thing. They just bring it here.”

“Ah,” said Hubert.

Nele Silberschmied had said the boys delivered it to the Countess’s laboratory, and Hubert had been expecting a hunt for a hidden fortress, a desire strangely similar to Bernadetta’s desperation for a puzzle to solve. But of course it just came to the Manor. It wasn’t a conspiracy, just the aborted remains of a dead woman’s work.

Bernadetta swallowed, shivered, before speaking again.

“Seeing mountains of the stuff, left abandoned to rot – if it can rot – it was like stumbling across her body, or something. Proof of her existence, left neglected. Like nobody cared that she had died. But the Silberschmied brothers were just doing their job, they didn’t know she was using it herself. They hadn’t received orders to stop, so they kept delivering, and the miners kept digging. I certainly don’t blame them. It’s more like I blame… all of the circumstances around my family, both for the effects they have, and just for existing. My mother’s secrecy. My father’s greed. My… how scared I get. I feel like we just keep making things worse for each other, and even my mother dying didn’t help.”

“You feel as though it’s inescapable, because your mother couldn’t escape indignity in death,” said Hubert. “Even if the indignity was just was her resources sitting abandoned.”

“Yeah,” Bernadetta croaked. “There’s probably more to it-”

“There’s always more to misery,” Hubert drawled, and he could hear Bernadetta smile through a little huff of breath.

“But I guess it makes me both… sad and angry about my mother, and afraid that I won’t be able to stop my father,” she continued. “I could kill him. Physically, I know I could. It wouldn’t even be hard. He doesn’t have combat training or anything, and he rarely leaves his rooms, let alone the Manor. But I don’t know if I can effectively wipe away all the damage he’s done to Varley and its people. He scrubbed my mother’s rooms clean of any trace of her personality, but part of her still lived on, down in the cellar, even if it was only just half of one of her projects. That’s his whole thing, destroying people. But if even he couldn’t get it a hundred percent right, what chance do I have?”

Hubert rolled his thoughts around his head.

“Just because he has made frequent effort to… destroy people, as you put it, that doesn’t mean he’s actually any good at it.”

He felt Bernadetta shift on the bed beside him, but kept his eyes on the ceiling.

“Like you said, he couldn’t get rid of every trace of your mother, because he didn’t know her – not what she was capable of, nor what she strived to accomplish, or even what she valued. And he certainly couldn’t crush you.”

Bernadetta made an inscrutable little noise.

“I’m… certainly not the same person I was when I was a kid,” she said.

“No,” Hubert agreed. “But I don’t think I need to tell you that no one ever is. More importantly, though, the person you are now is not of your father’s creation. He hurt you, but you were the one who decided how you’d heal, the kind of person you wanted to be. The kind of person you’re still becoming.”

Hubert finally rolled his head to look to his friend, and found her staring up at the ceiling, too.

“Still becoming…” she murmured, lips barely moving.

“Varley isn’t going to heal overnight, even if we killed the Count tonight,” Hubert said, and then paused, waiting for Bernadetta to speak. She didn’t, and so he carried on. “Traces of turmoil will remain, at least for as long as there are people living who remember him. We won’t be able to simply snap our fingers and rid the people of their fears of being abused or fired or having to go without food. But that doesn’t mean we won’t be able to make things _better_ , even if it might take a long time.”

“Or the rest of my life,” Bernadetta mumbled.

“There are worse ways to spend a life,” said Hubert.

Bernadetta shuffled again, and he looked out the corner of his eyes to see her hug her arms to her chest.

“Yeah,” she said once she was still. “I suppose there are plenty.”

She looked so small like that, fragile and young and worn down right to the bone. Sometimes it seemed to Hubert that Bernadetta the sniper and champion of Varley, and Bernadetta his friend, the girl who slept with three different plushies and jumped at opening doors, were completely different people. But there, upon her faded quilt, it was painfully clear that they were the one and the same. The very effort of being human seemed to weigh upon Bernadetta like a ten tonne stone, her face so similar to Edelgard’s in the dark of night, when memories chased her down the halls of the palace and sent her gasping to grip Hubert’s arm, begging him to make her pursuers go away.

How he longed to help her roll away that rock.

“I met the Silberschmieds themselves today,” he said, hoping his change of topic seemed interesting instead of callous.

“Oh?” said Bernadetta, finally looking over to meet his eyes. “I hope they’ll be alright if we stop the excavation.”

Hubert nodded, giving what he hoped was a reassuring little smile.

“They live on a goat farm, with plenty of healthy and… loud animals.”

That got Bernadetta to smile.

“I’d forgotten how noisy they could be after spending all these years away,” she said. “I kinda missed it though. They’re very effective alarm clocks.”

“And kettle-timers,” said Hubert. “I had tea with the Silberschmied matriarch in their farmstead this afternoon.”

“Did you, now?” asked Bernadetta. “Make it through without testing the tea for poison?”

“Sometimes even I must place my life in the hands of another on the strength of trust alone,” declared Hubert. “But… Nele Silberschmied seemed to me to be too shrewd to try anything in her home. She… knew your mother, you know.”

Bernadetta sat bolt upright, looking down at Hubert as if he’d just declared he’d murdered the woman.

“What?” she breathed.

“Apparently it was a long time ago,” said Hubert. “When you were just a child. But… If you wanted to talk to someone about your mother, that’s one place to start.”

Bernadetta flopped back onto the bed, staring straight up, seemingly hesitant to even breathe too heavily, lest she disturb the balance of the universe.

“Thank you,” she finally managed, eyes still unblinking. “Maybe that’s why the name Silberschmied sounded vaguely familiar to me, the very first time you said it.”

Hubert licked his lips. This was the part of the conversation he had been dreading, ever since learning what he had from Nele. This was the part where he had to dredge up Bernadetta’s worst memories.

“Actually…” he said. He felt more nervous than in the thick of battle, guilty of worse than murder. “Nele said you used to play with her nephew. A boy named Moritz.”

Bernadetta did not react. Did not cry out and did not jolt. She lay so perfectly still, it was as if she had stopped breathing.

 _That poor baby boy_. Nele’s voice had been sandpaper-rough with grief. _We couldn’t even give him a funeral, because we knew the Count was watching us, desperate for any excuse to do away with all of us. Family near the Manor planted a tree for him, out on a crest above the creek. We had to go visit it one by one, lest we draw too much attention to ourselves. Couldn’t acknowledge why we were going. But it’s always been Moritz’s Tree in our hearts_.

_At the time I thought the Count was trying to “protect” his daughter, as if hanging around a little commoner boy would befoul her somehow. But I know better now. He hates that girl as much as he hated my nephew. If you want him dead, I’ll do every damn thing in my power to help you._

“He killed him,” Bernadetta croaked. “He was my only friend, and my father beat him like a rabid dog until he bled so bad he choked on his own blood. He didn’t even finish the job. He left him by the side of the road, as if he’d lost interest halfway through the murder. His parents had to watch him die at home, doing everything they could to save him, but my father had crushed his skull. No one even knows if he did it himself, or paid someone to.”

Hubert took in a breath to comfort her somehow, but she just kept going.

“I only found out when I begged Johannes to tell me. I hadn’t seen Moritz in days and I was so upset, I thought he hated me. Johannes tried to break it to me gently, but… He just kept going. I never really thought about it, but I guessed it had to be traumatising for him, too, to know a little boy that he’d watch play around, just a happy little kid, to know his employer had murdered him viciously. Goddess, no wonder Johannes cracked and told my father about our plans, he’s probably lived in fear of his own children being killed for years.”

Bernadetta’s voice was shaking. Her hands by her sides gripped the bedspread as if she were afraid of falling off.

“I’m so sorry for bringing it up,” Hubert said, voice low. “I just wanted you to know that the Silberschmieds – all of them – they don’t blame you at all. You were just a child, and they know that, no matter how much it hurt, it wasn’t your fault. They want you to be happy.”

“What?” breathed Bernadetta, turning back to him. “Why?”

“You’ll always be Moritz’s best friend.”

Bernadetta’s face crumpled, and Hubert could practically hear her heart shatter.

He wasn’t sure if she reached out to him, or if he simply had to hold her, but in an instant she was in his arms, face pressed to his chest as she sobbed so violently he was afraid she’d be sick. She trembled under his hold, but her fists were firm in his shirt, refusing to be let go. And even though he feared overstepping, how could he abandon her to face this grief alone? She had carried it for so long, and by Seiros did he know the shape of it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered to her, trying not to imagine the shape of a child’s crushed skull.

Bernadetta took a great rattling breath.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Unbidden, images of Lady Edelgard’s scars came to his mind. He curled tighter around Bernadetta, as if to shield himself from the sounds of her anguish.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

The two held each other until time stopped turning, exhausted and aching. Slowly, Bernadetta’s trembling began to stabilise. Hubert’s head began to clear of memories he’d thought long-repressed. Together, they shuffled apart slightly, to allow space to look in each other’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Bernadetta said, voice muffled against the quilt.

“Why?” asked Hubert, dry even in his emotional exhaustion. “I was the one who made you cry.”

“No you weren’t,” said Bernadetta. “Not really. Not in the beginning.”

Hubert closed his eyes, listened to her breathe, deep and even. It sounded as if she was trying to calm herself the way she would a wild animal. It reminded him a little of the exercises he had learned to do with Ferdinand, to quell his racing mind.

“You know,” he said, and tried not to feel ridiculous. “Ferdinand and I have a way to calm a racing mind.”

“Oh?” said Bernadetta, surprisingly conspiratorial.

Hubert did his best to not think about what she could suspect.

“You turn your mind to focus on your immediate surroundings, describing them with as many senses as you can manage, and trying instead to follow the thoughts that they produce, instead of what else may be on your mind.”

Bernadetta’s eyes roved for a second, before settling on the ceiling again.

“Like that cobweb that won’t stay still?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s a prime choice,” said Hubert.

Seconds passed. They both stared at the dust-laden cobweb as it quivered above them.

“This is just making me want to clean,” mumbled Bernadetta.

“Better than wanting to cry.”

Bernadetta snorted, loud and hard and seemingly startling even herself.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” she said, giving Hubert a little smile. “Not to be, uh, rude or anything, but you don’t really seem the type to come up with quiet ways to calm down.”

Hubert raised his eyebrows, but couldn’t disagree with her.

“You know what they say about necessity and invention,” he said. “There were some dark moments in the war, for both Ferdinand and I. We had to find something that worked, or risk losing ourselves. I can’t say that all of our attempts were as healthy as that.”

Bernadetta was quiet, but Hubert could tell she was thinking. At times their minds seemed to run at similar speeds, and Hubert felt another bolt of pity for her.

“You two are together, right?” asked Bernadetta, voice timid. “You and Ferdinand?”

Hubert blinked as a wave of cold dread washed over him.

“What makes you say that?” His voice was as flat and cold as the stone walls surrounding them.

“The way you talk about him,” Bernadetta replied immediately. “You seem to be looking for reasons to bring him up. You talk about him even when there’s no reason to, and you’re not one to waste words.”

Hubert proved her point by remaining silent. Beside him, Bernadetta was growing ever more tense. He had to assuage her fears, tell her he didn’t mind, but… He did. Not that he thought she was _intruding_ , really, more that he just hated bringing his emotions out before anyone. He’d spent years using people’s interpersonal bonds against them in service to the Empire, and now he was supposed to just put his own out there, for Bernadetta to do with as she pleased?

He closed his eyes.

Bernadetta wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Not on purpose, not in a way that he couldn’t bounce back from. If she could trust him to bring her father to justice, the least he could do was trust her.

“We are,” he croaked. It was as if his mouth had forgotten how to work. “Since… two months before the end of the war.”

“Huh,” said Bernadetta. “That’s… a lot longer than I expected.” She thought for a moment. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t really suspect anything until this trip.”

“I don’t need consolation,” said Hubert. “I just hope you don’t begrudge me keeping such secrets from you.”

For some reason, Bernadetta let out a loud snort at that.

“As if I… Hm,” she trailed off, turning away.

Hubert tried to ignore how he picked up on that, smelling a story.

“Sorry for pushing you,” Bernadetta said. “I just kinda wanted to talk about something else. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Why not?” Hubert found himself asking.

Bernadetta shifted, rolling over to look at him.

“It’s your life, Hubert. Yours to do with as you please.”

Hubert lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach, as he mulled over that sentence. Outside, night finished settling, and the lands of Varley turned black. Beside him, Bernadetta was content to lie in similar silence, slightly curled toward him, breathing growing slow and steady. Hubert’s eyes remained fixed to the cobweb above him, but its incessant flapping about gradually stopped grating on him, becoming just another rhythm of his mind. His eyelids drooped, thoughts soft and unspecified.

And then, incredibly, Hubert von Vestra, fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I really appreciate your support during the sporadic updates due to personal stuff as well as all the damn work I've had to slog through for my Master's degree. I've had really low energy, so I hope you'll forgive me for not replying to your comments - I promise they mean the world to me! Shoutout to those of you who guessed it was sulphur they were mining (or those of you who were following me on twitter and saw me slowly lose my mind as I tried to understand how mining works lmao) and I really hope you'll stick with me!  
> Would you believe we're close to what I think of as the last few chapters? But who knows how much longer this story is actually gonna be because this single chapter was 13k words lmao we could be here until 2021 who _knows_ what I am doing.  
> Thanks again for all your support.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated **E:** _Explicit sexual content (masturbation), allusion to fears of parental sexual abuse (no actual instances thereof), and Bernadetta's severe agoraphobia and panic attacks from the academy era. Bernadetta and her father do not directly interact in this chapter._

The grounds were green, almost blindingly so, in the vibrant light of summer. Bernadetta lay in the grass, great blades of it rising up around her little face, so that all the world seemed to be behind a towering green fence.

“Bet I can climb that tree faster than you!”

The voice came from her left, and Bernadetta didn’t need to turn to see who it was, didn’t even need to respond. She just leapt to her feet, the world spinning out of focus as she surged forward, laughing loudly as she was jostled by her competitor.

She wasn’t sure where the tree was until it was upon her, rough bark beneath her hands and scraping against petticoated knees revealed by her wild scrambling. The familiar tightness of exertion was in her chest, and it felt good to press against it, to push through her limits in childish pursuit of victory. The tree was formless beneath her, nothing more than a collection of branches, footholds. She had no concept of what species it was, and no desire to learn.

“I win!” she crowed, gripping tight to the little twigs that rose above the nest of the tree’s fork.

“But now if you wanna get back down, you gotta get through me!” her friend replied from not two branches below her.

He raised his hands like claws, grit his teeth and swiped at her like an angry cat, drawing a squeal of laugher from Bernadetta. She leant back against a branch, braced herself and kicked her feet down toward her friend, catching the two of them in a many-limbed standoff.

“Are you playing nice up there?”

Bernadetta couldn’t remember what her mother sounded like, but she knew that was her voice.

“Yes, mum!” she cried in reply, even as her friend shrunk from the potential admonishment. It felt like it’d be rude to kick him while he was looking over his shoulder like that, even though it’d definitely earn her a win.

From up here in the tree, though, she could see what he couldn’t amidst the branches. Her mother was hundreds of metres away, across the grass, in the little garden of shrubs behind the Manor. There was a polite little oasis of cobblestone there, upon which sat a wrought-iron table and four matching chairs. From the tree, she shouldn’t have been able to see what was on it, and yet she knew the spread perfectly. Her mother’s cube teapot and stemless wineglasses, a platter of Morfis fruit and pâté too pungent for Bernadetta, yet, despite her disgust, her mother would urge her every time to take a bite, to “acquire the taste” and become the sophisticated young woman she knew she was capable of being. Bernadetta would duck her head and demure, enduring the salty paste if only to avoid shaming her mother in front of her guest.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” her mother would ask as Bernadetta swallowed, pâté like cement in her throat.

But she always shook her head, said it was fine, determined to come out on top of whatever this little battle was. And the guest would laugh despite her mother’s tensing, and she’d hand Bernadetta a sweet and tell her to go run and play with Moritz.

Moritz.

The light of summer faded, twisted, wrenched itself from Bernadetta’s grasp, even as she stared into the face of Nele Silberschmied. Smiling, knowing, an adult in close conversation with her mother as her nephew played free and gentle in the grass beyond.

Bernadetta rolled from bed with a gasp, head hot and swampy with disorientation. She found herself on her feet and stumbled forward to the door, pushed it open and stumbled into the night outside, the grounds of Garreg Mach. Thank God, no one would see her. She was getting hungry. She was always hungry at Garreg Mach – she could never manage to get enough food just by sculking around at night and filching from the kitchens, but the other option was to sit in the dining hall with a hundred other students, feel the weight of their eyes on her, the knowledge that she was being perceived, judged, found wanting…

She lumbered down the stairs, and then, in a twist of memory, found herself at the rear door to the kitchen. She was out of breath and aching in a thousand different ways, her brow heavy from the strain of her frown, but some wretched drive within her said that she couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop running. The door gave way to her desperate hands, but the room inside was dark, unfamiliar. From somewhere beyond she could hear voices, indistinct murmurings that she nonetheless immediately knew were Petra, Dorothea and Edelgard, sitting somewhere in the dining hall and holding court without her.

Her knees buckled as she tried nonetheless to press forward, no longer in search of food but some baser kind of comfort. Something to cling to like an abseiler would a rock, something real and solid in the face of her nightmare that wasn’t a nightmare, a memory that bore the weight of a thousand sins, all of them no doubt her own. Her arms flailed out to try and catch herself and ended up catching against stacked skillets, sending them clattering to the ground with hideous sound.

The tears came unbidden, startled out of her not by the noise but by the consequence she knew it would bring. And sure enough there was the rush of footsteps and she could not make herself small enough, couldn’t shy away from the pain that was approaching, couldn’t make it stop, not any of it, not even for a little while.

“Oh, Goddess, Bernadetta!”

She wailed at Dorothea’s voice, she wailed at the gentle press of Petra’s hands as she searched for wounds that would not show, and she wailed at the feel of Edelgard’s palm against her brow, shaky as she tried to wipe away a misery that went deeper than perhaps even the rest of Bernadetta did.

“What’s wrong?” Dorothea continued, as sweet as sunlight and just as blinding.

But Bernadetta could not say. Not because she didn’t know, or because she didn’t want to share. The very act of speaking had been ripped from her, and now the comfort of another’s arms was a terror in and of itself. But she did not wrench herself from Edelgard’s grip, no matter how it pained her, no matter how tightly she readied herself for what seemed like an inevitable blow. She held on tight, if only because she did not know if she would ever be held again.

Reality came rushing back to Bernadetta, drenching her in cold sweat as heavily as if a bucket of water had just been dropped on her. She wasn’t at Garreg Mach, and she wasn’t behind the Manor. She was inside it, asleep atop the covers of her bed. She was…

She looked at her hands, clenched in the sheets by her head, trying to sort the real from the imagined. She was at home… “home”, as it were, and 23 years old. All that was in the past. But how much of it had actually happened? Was that a real memory from her schooldays, collapsing in the kitchens after dark? Or was it a dream, cobbled together from so many different events and a desperation for someone, anyone to step in and tell her that her way of living wasn’t sustainable?

Well, Edelgard had done that, hadn’t she? It mightn’t have taken some great world-shaking impetus for their terse conversation in the dining hall, but they’d had it, and Bernadetta had realised that, if she wanted to try, there’d be someone waiting for her on the other side. Well, “waiting” for her might be a bit generous.

She rolled over, flopped on her back. She still wasn’t quite sure how Edelgard saw her. Hell, she was still trying to remember what was real and what was a dream, but the Edelgard thing had been bothering her for a while. They were friends… right? She thought of the letters they had exchanged after Bernadetta’s meltdown at her mother’s funeral, the start of all this fiasco. Bernadetta had called them friends in hers, but Edelgard hadn’t acknowledged that. Did she not…

No. They were friends. Edelgard had her own problems with expressing social bonds and stuff like that – Bernadetta had to look at her actions, not her words, if she wanted to know the truth. And Edelgard had always been kind to her, in a kind of raw steel fashion. Where others had tried to coddle her, Edelgard had reached right into her chest and pulled forth the kind of person she knew Bernadetta could be, right from the beginning. Even now, though she had worried over Berndetta’s safety in returning to Varley, she had let her go, and tried to outfit her with a truly ridiculous amount of luggage in order to facilitate her doing so.

Edelgard cared about her, and no matter how much her self-effacing nature railed against the notion, she could no longer deny it. But that still didn’t feel like a victory. What did she _think_ about Bernadetta? Did she think about her at all? Was she missing her, even now? Did she dwell on their fireside chats, on how they had huddled for warmth during the long marches of the war? Did she carry the handkerchief she had embroidered with Edelgard’s initials – the one that had been so embarrassing to make that she went and made similar ones for all of the Strike Force so as not to give Edelgard the wrong idea?

Even that phrase, “wrong idea”… Bernadetta knew what notions she was circling, but she couldn’t make herself focus on them, admit to herself what she had been feeling for a long time, now. It felt like such a betrayal of Edelgard to think of her in that way, but she couldn’t quite explain why. All of her thoughts about Edelgard were positive, and it wasn’t like she was ever, ever in a million years going to _do_ anything about them, it was just that… Coming from Bernadetta, of all people, they seemed repulsive.

That was cruel to herself, and something she should fight, she knew it. But she didn’t have anything to disprove it with. Her experience was so laughably minimal it worried her, but everything about the whole _concept_ worried her because of her first brushes with the ideas of marriage and desirability, weapons forged against her instead of comforts in loneliness. But, of course, that was also true of Dorothea and they’d had a whole conversation about it that had lasted hours upon hours and still Bernadetta couldn’t shake the feeling that, because they came from her, the feelings were somehow tainted.

_But what if Edelgard approached you? What if she said her feelings for you were as ardent as yours for her, if she said she softened at the sight of you, that you made her days brighter and nights longer? What if those same feelings came from her?_

“I can’t…” Bernadetta mumbled to herself, “I can’t put thoughts in her head like that. It isn’t fair.”

And with the scraping of her cheek against the sheets, she finally settled back into reality. She’d been talking with Hubert last night, about Moritz and Ferdinand and all the different things that made her heart feel so heavy. But he was gone now, despite her remembering falling asleep beside him. Of course, it was silly to expect Hubert von Vestra to take a nap with her, but-

There was a note on the pillow beside her. Written in the standard Black Eagles alphanumeric cypher they used only to stop reading over shoulders, it read,

_B,_

_Please accept my apologies. I fell asleep beside you after our conversation last night and, somehow, slept through the night. I am confident that no one saw me leave, but if anyone approaches you and claims to have seen me, you have my permission to claim that I was monitoring and updating the security wards I had placed on your room._

_I have ridden to the sulphur mine to investigate whether the Count had halted production there as I suspected he might have after he so rudely walked out on us at dinner the night before last. I spoke with the servants but it seems I am leaving before he has awoken, so I cannot advise you as to how best to avoid him today._

_I shall return as soon as I have an idea of how the mine is being managed, and what the labourers shall do once it is closed. The best-case scenario is to have the Vestra Sorcery Engineers become the primary client of the sulphur mine, however, establishing a monopoly on a resource previously only extracted from dangerous volcanoes feels like something I should discuss with Edelgard and Ferdinand first. Naturally, as future owner of this mine, your voice will carry great weight in said discussion, so do give it some thought._

_-H._

Bernadetta didn’t even realise he’d warded her room as well as his own, but the second she thought about it, it seemed obvious. She fought down the creeping feeling in her stomach. Nobody had seen Hubert leave her room. But that didn’t change the fact that Hubert had been here, in her room, while she was sleeping…

She tossed her head, snorting like a horse from the effort to expel such a cruel thought. She had shared tents and blankets and bedrolls with all of the men in the Strike Force and plenty in her own battalion during the war – why should the idea of sleeping beside someone take on such a foreboding association just because she was in a place of “high society”? Was the peerage of Fódlan truly so deprived of morals that she couldn’t sleep in her own home?

Well, she was far too late to that question.

A strange, detached readiness hummed within her as she washed her face, swapped her slept-in gown for a vest-and-breeches get up better suited to riding than moping around the Manor, and wondered what she was going to do for the day. Well, that all depended on her father, didn’t it? Wherever he went, she would have to avoid, her life a mirror image of his, hemmed in by the constraints of his cruelty. Her cowardice.

But, she thought, as she pinned her opal haircomb in place, what was it that she feared, exactly? Not just Count Varley the concept – what was she afraid of happening? She stood before the mirror, looked herself in the eye. Being slapped? She’d been stabbed more times than she could count in the war, hastily patched together with Heal or vulnerary before being thrown back into the fray once more, willing to face much worse in pursuit of safety for Fódlan. Anything more than a single hit she could fight off, so it wasn’t that. And it wasn’t even fear of him doing something _else_ physical to her. She had a Bow Knight’s legs, had even kicked a fully-armoured Fortress Knight off her on one occasion.

Did she fear his insults? Surely it would be an honour to be insulted by someone so repugnant. But they did still send a knot tightening in her stomach at the thought, the raw fury and disgust in his voice, on his face, the way he made her feel like she had let him down just by existing. But why did she care? Why did it still hurt after all this time to have failed someone who never even tried to care for her? Why should she keep striving to live up to his ideal of a daughter – a marriageable _commodity_ , something to be used by the highest bidder and then thrown to the dogs – when he had never even asked her idea of what a father could be?

She blinked at her reflection. Breathed slow, in and out, until little spots of fog appeared on the mirror.

“I’m never going to have a father.”

It felt awful to say it aloud. To sit with it, the notion that no, there wasn’t anything she could do to fix things. She wasn’t going to wake up from a bad dream to parents who loved her, who spoke to her earnest and open, who wanted to know who she was, what she wanted. But it was the truth, she knew from the second it left her lips. There was no taking it back.

“And he is _never_ going to have a daughter.”

She buckled her expedition belt on – sans only her quiver – and stocked it with two vulneraries, Hubert’s four standard antidotes, a dagger, her lockpick pouch, a notebook and a stubby pencil. The fancy little wall clock she’d received as a child – its rose gold face showing date and the movement of the planets as well as time – showed it to be half past nine. It was possible her father might be up by now, but more likely he was still asleep. Even if he was up, he’d be eating breakfast in his quarters, and would likely stay there, catching up on whatever loathsome correspondence he undertook, until lunch, where he would dine alone.

No longer his daughter, she no longer found herself beholden to the etiquette one displayed a family member, and not willing to be a guest of a poorly-run, overworked, under-paid household, the only other way she could be described was as an interloper. A spy. She may as well embrace it.

Her first stop was down to the kitchen, where she confirmed with Mina that the Count had not yet sent for breakfast yet, though she had his kippers on the coals ready to go.

“By the way,” she said, “My sister said you was in the village yesterday, talking straight patricide.”

And Bernadetta did not even feel shocked. In fact, there was even a twinge of pride coming upon her at the realisation that people were listening to her, talking about her ideas.

“I hope I didn’t alarm her,” Bernadetta said with a small smile.

“Are you kidding?” asked Mina, giving her a hearty slap to the shoulder. “You’ve got more balls than anyone this County has seen in decades. We’ve all wanted to give him the long stick off the short pier for fuckin’ ever, but ‘course we can’t say that and leave with heads still on our shoulders, so to have someone from upstairs not only listen to us but be the one to propose it…” She shook her head with a grin. “You even had my sister smilin’ as she told me, and she’s the type to poke holes in everybody.”

Bernadetta thought of the sharp-tongued young lady from the well-house, her salient points in the fear of the people being left behind should the structure of Varley shift too drastically, while also being desperate for change.

“Your sister…” she said. “Is she about our age? Long face with light brown hair?”

“Oh, sweet Cethleann, _please_ tell me Erna didn’t get short with you yesterday,” said Mina, burying her face in her hands.

Bernadetta couldn’t help it, she had to laugh.

“She did, yeah. And I’m really grateful for it, actually. All this time, the thing I’ve been most worried about is replacing my father only to become a different kind of dictator myself. I’m not great with talking to people – I try to listen, but knowing what questions to ask is, um, way harder. Having someone be so candid about their fears, and who knows how the current way of things impacts daily life for the people, it’s… invaluable.”

“You can’t possibly mean that,” said Mina. “It’s okay if you’re mad at her. I know you don’t like punishments, but I can tell her to put a sock in it ‘round you and the other fine folk.”

“No, no, I _need_ her,” said Bernadetta. “Think of it like this. When you cook… Oh, um, my father probably acts a complete child no matter what you serve him, but when you cook for the other staff, you need them to tell you when you make something that’s undercooked, or that needs salt, or if it has too much spice, otherwise you won’t be able to improve the dish, and you’ll stay at the same level of skill forever. Running a County should be like that, a _skill_ , not something that is passed down like an heirloom.

“If I want to be better than my father, that means learning what “better” means in the first place,” she continued. “And if someone comes along who’s better than me, who knows the people more and who’s better at resource management and negotiations and liaising between people and palace, then I need to be both humble enough and strong enough to give them my position, as well as being smart enough to know what that skill looks like. And I can’t do that unless people speak up when I do wrong.”

Something else stirred in her mind.

“It’s also why I need to stand up to my dad, so I can learn to take criticisms as more than just insults, and insults as something other than complete devastation to who I am. I have to learn to do things, even though I’m embarrassed or afraid. I have to do this.”

Mina let her go with a cold meat pie and an awkward warning not to do anything too messy too quickly. Of course, Bernadetta knew how much Edelgard and Ferdinand were relying on bringing him to trial to avoid setting a precedent for nobility getting away with murder, but she couldn’t deny that an itch was there. It was the same kind of hyper-paranoia that looped back around to apparent confidence that had come upon her during night watches, where every crack of a twig had her ready to race into the forest, like one of her very first conversations with Hubert, where she had been so frightened she had readied an exorcism of all things. But she had to hold steady, for the people of all Fódlan. For Edelgard, and the future she had been willing to die for.

But there was still something she could do.

The corridors were quiet, horribly still and anticipatory beneath the echoing clack of her buckled shoes. It would have been more prudent to take the servant’s passages, but even though her father’s rooms were at the exact opposite end of the Manor, she found herself gripped with a strange desire to run into him. To see him leave one of the many guest rooms before the library, lock eyes with her as they both stood still in the open marble of the corridor. What would even happen next? Would she be overcome with battle fervour and descend on him, drawing her dagger and closing her mind? Or would she stay rooted to the spot as he walked right past her, looking right through her as though she had never existed? Would she be able to say something, anything, that could shake him? She exhaled, began walking faster.

There was nothing to say. This wasn’t some argument that could be won with a quirky quip. His arrogance dragged behind him like a boulder – there was no insult that could truly pierce him. One had to care about things in order to be susceptible to ridicule, and Bernadetta had no idea what her father cared about. Making money? Fine food? Perhaps. But deep down, she knew that was all merely part of his greatest passion. More than anything else, he cared about being the man on the biggest horse, with the hardest slap. The kind of man who felt he had to beat a child in order to establish dominance over them, the kind of man who saw another’s inadequacies, difficulties as insults to his level of control.

She reached the door to the library, pushed it open.

Did he read from these books? She could picture him, posted up in an armchair, glaring down at the pages of something before tossing it to the side, but it seemed more likely to be a report or a letter or a bill than a book, something to be read for enjoyment or knowledge. Reading to learn involved at least some level of humility, a recognition that there are thoughts out there that you have not yet considered, and Bernadetta just could not see him investing so much time in bettering himself, if only a little. And to think of him taking joy in something! The thought made her physically shake her head, a smile on her face.

Some of these books were hers, a collection of botanical guides she had purchased through one of her childhood tutors when he pushed her to choose a topic of thorough analysis. She had turned in a passable report on the potential effects of soil acidity on plants depending on their genus, but had points deducted for sloppy presentation – her jittery hands had rendered her script scraggly and the paper crumpled. But she had enjoyed it, not for the rigorous source analysis and data aggregation, but for the sheer joy of learning. In learning how different plants adapted to different environments, she felt as though she was getting to know a vast parade of people, all adorned in floral finery, all with strange and beautiful stories. It was the carnivorous plants that captivated her the most, those who had been abandoned by the nutrient-devoid soil they were born into, and so had grown teeth, learned to feed on flesh out of sheer desperation to survive.

Sometimes she felt as if she…

But she couldn’t yet follow that thought all the way through, still shying away from imagining herself in any outright positive light, in any way comparable to the wonders of the natural world.

Besides, she had reached her father’s study.

An ear against the black wood detected only silence from within, and checking the reflection of the dagger she slid beneath the door revealed only darkness within. She did not pause to reconsider, or to even think. Her lockpicks slipped from their velvet lining and found their place within the lock. The last time she was here had been too nerve-wracking for her to remember anything about this particular puzzle, but all locks were ultimately the same, so long as you had the patience.

Click.

The darkness inside was no longer daunting, the way it had been when she had broken in with Hubert. It was just an empty room, and though pulling the brocade curtains aside covered her in dust, it was just dust. Looking at the study with a detached eye, it suddenly seemed like any room in Enbarr, or even the teachers’ rooms at Garreg Mach. The records she needed were on the shelves, but suddenly she was no longer afraid of going through the drawers in the desk. Not locked – which, frankly, was smart. If someone could get through a door lock, they could get into a drawer, to discover…

Scraps of paper. Old receipt letters. A tin of mints that was probably older than she was. A letter-opener so sleek and thin it had to have been her mother’s. A broken pair of glasses. Who in Varley Manor had ever worn glasses?

The second drawer was much of the same, though it also held the stubby remains of account books. She didn’t know enough about the bank jargon scribbled on the stubs to tell if any of them were incriminating, but surely someone in the palace employ would be able to track what these transactions were for. From what she could tell, at least, there seemed to be very large sums attached to them. But was that an abbreviated date, or an account number? Best not to jump to conclusions, she decided, and shut the drawer fast, but not before making a memo about “acc bks, 2 drw” in her expedition notebook.

The lowest two drawers were actually one deep drawer, fitted internally with a filing-cabinet style rack. Now _these_ could be important. But they were organised so _oddly_. Not completely random, like the incomprehensibly stacked annual ledgers, but just… not in categories Bernadetta would have expected. Instead of “Manor Expenses” under M or a vague “Upkeep” under U or even just a “Food” under F, there was instead a whole folder just labelled “Fish”. Instantly suspicious of a cover-up, Bernadetta pulled it out. But no, the hefty packet was instead filled with fishing season hauls, trawler returns, breeding speculations, even cooking instructions. Many of the filed papers were glossy and foiled letters from the owners of fishing companies, written in a way to tempt large investors.

That was odd, to say the least. Varley’s two Strom Rivers – Upper and Lower – had sustained people with its wildlife since there had been people living on them, but they didn’t exactly have the kind of fish worthy of export, at least not to other river areas. Bernadetta’s stomach turned as she flicked through brochure after letter after invitation, all addressed to The Esteemed Count Varley, until she came to the invoices. This wasn’t him trying to capitalise off one of Varley’s natural resources and industries. This was him indulging in one of the most ridiculous vices she could imagine.

Forget Gloucester wines or Dagdan coffee or Almyran scents or Duscan gold or Morfis pipes. Her father had spent over one hundred thousand gold pieces on fish in the last year alone. Whole Marlin, transported from Brigid in Sreng ice, delivered to her father’s table, where he would eat alone on golden plates, and sip from her mother’s marble cups.

She shut the folder with a snap, and stuffed it back into the drawer. She rifled through the rest, and found her heart sinking. The largest folders were unlabelled, and filled with all sorts of nonsense. Ore sales reports alongside agricultural product taxes. Transport expenses from this year next to the goldsmith’s bill for a ceremonial sword from 1174. There was one labelled “Jania” which she expected to include her mother’s wardrobe and experiment expenses, but instead was jammed with every record of income for the County seat for the duration of the war, with none of the expenses. It made Bernadetta sick to see her mother’s sharp script mark out subtractions from gross profit for wages and mine repairs, with no indication of whether any of that had actually been paid for. When her father had been under her thumb, surely the Countess had a tight enough control to ensure no one missed out… right?

The papers after her mother had moved permanently to the capital, however, had none of her annotations, and none of her father’s, either. The mine-managers – no doubt like the elderly man surrounded by filing cabinets Hubert had described at the sulphur shaft – had sent letters to the Manor recounting how much ore they had excavated, and how much they expected the Empire to buy it for – a price much lower than peacetime, but that was the way of the world, all glory to the Emperor, may her seat be secured swiftly – but there seemed to be no indication that her father had done any calculations on these sales. Nothing about wages or the cost of transporting the ore or, indeed, whether the sales predictions had even been accurate. It was as if he had simply looked at the biggest number on the page and assumed it was all for him.

She couldn’t assume anything without proof, Bernadetta reminded herself as she shoved the file back in the drawer as though it were a snake rearing to bite. Perhaps records of payments were elsewhere. Perhaps there was only one copy of each, and they were now in the on-site offices of the mines. The thoughts did little to calm her disgust, her hands trembling as she wrote in her notebook, “dsk files dis-org. No g-out after Jania, g-in only.”

But, then again, was it any wonder that the files in the desk were in such disarray when the shelves of historical records were so devoid of order? Bernadetta straightened up, moved to the shelf of identical black ledgers closest to the door, just to have a place to start. How had they ended up so out of order to begin with? Surely the Varley forebears hadn’t been _as_ awful as her father… Right? At the very least, it didn’t seem like something her mother would have tolerated. Unless they were actually arranged according to some system of her mother’s own devising, in descending order of total income or expenses or how interesting the year was or some nonsense like that. Frustration welled within her as she scanned the top shelf, watching it go from 1152 to 1121 to 1166 and on and on and on. But at the same time, she felt a flicker of sadness. Her mother was so inaccessible to her now, and her father always had been, and she knew so little of any other members of the Varley line that had come before her. Perhaps their order would have been obvious had she known anything about her family members as people. The loneliness weighed on her, drooping her eyelids, but she did not falter. She pulled the rolling ladder around, and began her hunt for the records of her father’s reign.

She didn’t work quietly. She wasn’t out to deliberately make noise, but the urgent need to do everything as silently as possible had faded from its favoured position at the fore of her mind. Not in the same way it did when she was her friends, when it was drowned out by genuine joy, but in a way that reminded her of the war. There was a grim inevitability to it all – a knowledge that if dying wasn’t inevitable, at least getting hit sure was. Stealth was always an advantage if you could achieve it, but sometimes it wasn’t worth the extra exertion, the reduced numbers, the horses you couldn’t mount, the muffling of equipment. The strain on the mind.

Soon Bernadetta had stopped thinking about the sound of her existence, as her thoughts gave way to the task at hand. Her fingers grew bold as they traced over spines in a haphazard row, she did not hear the ladder squeak as she rolled it to the next shelf. And slowly, as she found the records of her father’s reign – 1160-1186 – the volumes thumped into her arms and onto the desk, unashamedly heavy and musty as they reclaimed what was allegedly her father’s workspace.

She found the war ledgers crammed together and stacked on top of each other, horizontally, at the bottom of one of the shelves. So it probably had been her father who messed it all up. Had he been looking for something? She took those records too, knowing full well that they were likely written in her mother’s clipped script, thinking that they’d be good for comparison, and wondering if they might reveal something else, too. On a whim she took down the ledger from 1159 when she found it, the last full year of her grandfather’s reign. She wasn’t sure if her intent was to establish what exactly her father was inheriting, or to compare his reign to his father’s, or even if she wanted to glean any possibility of his upbringing. Having died two years before her birth, Bernadetta’s grandfather was a mystery to her. It was as if he had vanished from memory the second his pulse stilled.

Either that, or there was just nothing worth remembering about him.

She didn’t know anything about her maternal grandparents either, she realised. Just that her mother had thought herself above them, and that her father considered his marriage to be beneath him. Maybe her mother had siblings. There could be a whole set of aunts and uncles and cousins out there who could be delighted to meet her, or horrified, or not interested at all.

When she was done, Bernadetta looked at the pile of black leather books upon the desk and knew with utmost certainty that whatever she was looking for, it was not going to be found between those pages. It wouldn’t be in the mine records, either, or in the sentence of whatever judge convened on her father. Someday soon she’d wake up an orphan and feel like the exact same Bernadetta she always had, only with no idea what to do next.

Her mother had only been dead a few weeks.

She looked out the window. Varley looked as grey and windswept and aggressively autumnal as it had for the duration of her visit, but the sun was still shining down on the bare rocks and dry grass that had been the verdant lawn of her childhood summers. It looked warmer out there than in the echoing halls of the mansion.

Bernadetta picked up the ledgers, balancing them in two piles under her chin, before returning to the library, putting them on the ground, closing the study door, and locking it behind her. She didn’t tidy the shelves. There was no hiding 26 missing volumes. She carried her ledgers through the halls as if they were her birthright, even before remembering that they technically were, and left them stacked at the base of her tower stairs as she ducked up to grab a coat and tote from her room. The coat went on her shoulders and the books in the bag, before she walked out the rear door onto the patio. It’s the big door, the one that should have been used to usher guests out for evening walks, but Varley did not receive many guests, and those that it did were not permitted the indulgence of a walk in the bracing fresh air. Bernadetta sucked down lungfuls of it as she made her way to the ancient white ash that she played in as a child. She couldn’t tell if it’d grown – to her it seemed it had been the same kind of enormous forever.

Beneath its nearly-bare branches, she took a seat, plucked a ledger at random from her bag, and began to read.

She didn’t feel like a different person. And yet, she knew that the Bernadetta of three months ago – perhaps even three weeks ago – would not have acted like this.

* * *

Hubert couldn’t help himself, he had been trained to prepare for the worst.

“What’s happened?” he asked the grooms as he returned in the late afternoon, sliding from his horse and looking around as if the Manor were about to be laid under siege.

The grooms shared glances as they got to work on the tack.

“I haven’t heard of anything, Sir,” said the younger one, giving Hubert’s horse a gentle tickle behind the ears. 

“Me neither,” said the elder. “Been as quiet as it was before you came to visit, Sir. Lady Bernadetta hasn’t gone out for a ride, either.”

Hubert’s blood turned to ice.

“Where is she?”

Hubert didn’t wait for anything beyond a shrug before charging into the Manor, long strides carrying him to the stairs, to her tower. He had to be more careful, he couldn’t let his guard down like that again, fall _asleep_ – deeply asleep, through the whole night – as if he wasn’t in enemy territory, as if he wasn’t in a young lady’s bedroom, mere days after she had confessed how the expectations of men had worn her childhood to dust.

But she wasn’t in her room, and Hubert found himself sketching detection and tracking spells in the air before he happened to glance out the window. The spell frames faded into the air as he recognised the figure reclining in the grass, beneath a great tree and surrounded by books. It was cold out, he could attest from his ride, but the idea of Bernadetta getting chilly from accidentally falling asleep in the gardens was, at the very least, less terrifying than the idea of her running off, distraught from Hubert’s betrayal of her trust. Unless, of course, she had not fallen asleep while reading, and had instead fainted after failing to distract herself.

Hubert cursed himself, and warped outside.

Bernadetta jolted at the crack and flash of his arrival, but he’d barely begun his apologies before she rose to her feet and smiled. That was reassuring, but the exhaustion in her eyes was less so.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking a lot, I suppose.”

Hubert began to formulate a way of approaching the topic of his transgression, of whether or not anyone had seen him leave her rom, if anyone had approached Bernadetta, but her next words caught him so off guard it was as though she was speaking a different language.

“I got my father’s ledgers.”

Hubert followed her outstretched arm to the canvas bag overflowing with books behind her. They were all bound in the same black leather, unadorned but for the gold-leaf year on the spines. The Varley County records, scattered among the dry grass and fallen ash leaves.

“ _How_?”

Bernadetta’s gaze seemed to withdraw, as though she was trying to solve a puzzle that was both difficult and inherently unpleasant.

“I just walked in and took them,” she said eventually. “The way I probably could have done every day since we arrived.”

Hubert stared at her. It was his job to think quickly, to make connections where others might not see them, to seize opportunities that were risky or unusual or just plain unethical. And yet he still couldn’t get his head around what Bernadetta was saying.

“He’s a late riser,” she explained, “and you saw how much chaos the shelves were in. He likes to sit around and do the same things, over and over and over, with no consideration that things _could_ be different. He went to all that effort of gutting my mother’s rooms and yet couldn’t be bothered to follow up on whether any of her projects were still in progress at his _own mines_. He only sees what he expects to see – like with you.”

“Me?” asked Hubert, and then a horrible thought occurred to him. “He… Did he see me leave your room?”

“Oh, no, no one did,” Bernadetta replied. “But, um, thank you. For thinking of me and my concerns, in your note.”

“I shouldn’t have stayed,” Hubert said.

“If I hadn’t wanted you there, I wouldn’t have asked you to stay,” said Bernadetta. “You’re my friend, Hubert. I know that and you know that and, ultimately, that’s where the truth is. Other people are always going to assume things, and while I really wanna avoid those assumptions where I can, more than that, I don’t want them to hurt our friendship. I don’t want to avoid spending time with you just because people _might_ get the wrong idea. Besides, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure my father has been thinking that you’re trying to marry me long before last night.”

“What?” asked Hubert, mortification rendering him both pale and flushed at once, blotchy in the windchill.

“I know,” said Bernadetta, burying her face in her hands, before taking a deep breath. “But think about it. His main source of information about our intent to prove him unworthy of his seat is Johannes, who from the get-go thought you and I were, um, involved. But also, that’s how his brain works. He sees you trying to figure out how things work in Varley and he thinks it’s because _you_ want to be the Count. He can’t imagine anyone just wanting things to be better for people they have no stake in, or the idea of making a venture less profitable in order to make it more humane. He thinks you’re like him, because he thinks _everyone_ is like him.”

Hubert knew she was right, and that it was no judgement of him as he actually was, and yet it still made him feel sick.

“I think… hm,” Bernadetta paused for a moment. “I think that _he_ thinks that what’s going to happen is this: At the end of our stay, or when we go back to Enbarr or whatever, you’re going to have him removed from his seat as Count and installed instead as a Minister for Religion in order to facilitate the changes to the Church, using his records to show that he’s better at being a minister than regional administrator. He thinks you’re gonna do this because you want to get rid of him but you also need to stay in his good graces in order have him let you marry me.”

Hubert winced, but Bernadetta was deep in the world of theory, pushing through without a bother, and somehow Hubert still had room in his mind for a bolt of pride.

“Because he thinks that if he steps down from the County, there’ll be a power vacuum because _obviously_ I couldn’t lead it, being saddled with the burden of being Bernadetta, so you’ll be able to use what you’ve learnt here along with your good graces with the Emperor to secure a marriage to me, keep the Varley line intact and get your own seat. So right now, he thinks he’s won.”

Hubert slowed his breathing, tried to follow her train of thought. There were a lot of assumptions she was making, yet he couldn’t find a definitive fault in any of them. But, of course, he didn’t have any outright proof either.

“That would make sense…” He thought of the Count’s posturing with the Imperial Book of Seiros, and what he had said at dinner a few nights ago, something about Hubert not being content merely with his father’s hand-me-downs. “But how do you figure he believes himself winning?”

“He’s no soldier,” Bernadetta replied immediately. “He’s used to all that nonsense of the court: power being transferred by someone tricked into giving it up, instead of it being taken by force. He thinks he still holds the cards – namely, consent to my marriage, and assistance in helping you run Varley. He thinks you’re getting too obvious in your bid for Varley, and he’s still operating under the old rules, where you have to win his approval in order to be married to me, but to his eyes, you’ve showed your hand too soon. He knows – ah, “ _knows_ ” – that you want his seat and his daughter and he’s going to hold it over you until he gets the Minister for Religion seat and no doubt a thousand other things, too. So he’s willing to let you keep making mistakes. Looking through his records, touring his mines like you already own the place, he sees that as you failing to win his approval, instead of succeeding in finding his crimes. So when you went out for a ride this morning-”

“-He saw _that_ as a threat, and ignored everything happening in the house, including your trip to the library,” finished Hubert to Bernadetta’s earnest nodding. “My, my, Bernie Bear. I must say, that’s some rather impressive reasoning.”

She beamed, and his heart swelled.

“The question, now, is: what to do with it?”

Bernadetta’s shoulders raised, seeming both sheepish and cornered.

“My only plan for the day was to keep analysing these ledgers – I’ve only gotten through one so far, from when I was 12, and it was mainly kept by my mother, anyway. They’re, uh, much more boring than I anticipated.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Hubert. “Intelligence gathering is rarely as easy and exciting as finding a receipt labelled “embezzlement” or a five o’clock appointment for “evil plot”. I can take care of those.”

“I want to help,” Bernadetta replied, voice not so much firm as it was solid, as though nothing could deter her. “It’s my job to understand what’s happened here. And… it’s what I want, too.”

“Alright,” said Hubert. There was no denying the use of a second pair of eyes, or someone to bounce theories off of, though that thought only made him wish – yet again – that Ferdinand was here. “But what we also need to do is ensure that your father _stays_ on his path, or, at least, one closer to it than our actual plan. We need to confirm his existing beliefs in a way that distracts from the truth.”

“A red herring…” said Bernadetta, who was missing the collection of mystery novels in the Palace library rather fiercely after hours of reading economic shorthand. And then, “Johannes.”

“Ah, our leaky pipe,” said Hubert, earning a glare from Bernadetta. “I understand full well the pressures that had him capitulating to the Count, and I pity him for them, but I won’t pretend I am not upset that he would so betray you.”

“It’s not a betrayal until we’re dead from it,” Bernadetta insisted. “And I think we can use his history of speaking the truth to the Count to our advantage.”

Hubert folded his arms.

“Very well then,” he said. “But first, let’s get these records to my rooms.”

They didn’t have to wait long for opportunity to strike. No sooner had they made it to Hubert’s rooms and begun arranging the ledgers in order – “I don’t know why, but starting from the beginning of his rule just seemed too daunting,” said Bernadetta – than there was a knock at the door. It was Oskar and Johannes, bearing a tea trolley festooned with tea and cheeses and little sandwiches.

“What’s all this?” Bernadetta asked with a smile, as Hubert stared at the cheese, as though he could divine whether it was poisoned from three metres away.

“Complements of the Count,” said Oskar, his voice subdued and hesitant, enough to knock the smile from Bernadetta’s face.

Definitely poisoned, then.

Mild mannered Johannes stepped in when young Oskar seemed unable to find words that were not laced with fear.

“He says he hopes you enjoyed your ride, Minister von Vestra, and regrets that he will not be able to take dinner with you this evening, as he has a time-sensitive business affair to sort out. You have the kitchens at your disposal.”

“I see,” said Hubert, who could indeed see a great many things, none of which were clear to him.

Poison might be too obvious considering he was literally signing the trolley with his name, but, then again, he was in the man’s own home, surrounded by servants whose loyalty was enforced with a cold hand – anything was possible. More likely, though, it was some kind of politeness trap.

Ferdinand would know what to do here. He’d have some effortlessly charming response for the Count that would at once seem infallibly polite while also sewing some seed of doubt that the Count was underestimating him. But, of course, he and Ferdinand worked as a team, and part of their strategy was drawing focus to Ferdinand by making him seem the approachable party compared to Hubert, only to have any revealed weaknesses turned right back against Her Majesty’s enemies. Well, he’d already failed to establish the necessary rapport, but, according to Bernadetta, that could be useful. Make the Count feel overconfident. Alright, then…

“Please convey my most effuse thanks to his Lordship for his generosity, and my sincerest apologies for not inviting him on my ride this morning – I had some thinking to do. I wish him all the success with his business venture – I am always available should he wish for any assistance or insight,”

Oskar gave him a funny look, but Johannes simply bowed and said, “Of course,” in the exact tone one would expect from a butler, before drawing Oskar back out the door with a subtle motion of the hand. 

Hubert still thought that Bernadetta’s attachment to him was more nostalgia and sentiment than an actual reflection of his character, but, at the very least, the man would have no trouble finding employment in another household once they disposed of his current head of house. Perhaps Hubert could even capitalise on his tendency to let secrets slip, and use him as some kind of double-agent in his own domestics network… Though maybe that would be a little much to expect of him.

“He really won’t like you trying to muscle your way into his business dealings,” said Bernadetta, though her voice was devoid of the fear that had once characterised discussing her father’s displeasure.

“But of course,” said Hubert. “Necessitating some severe grovelling from me, including “giving up” some advantage that I never wanted in the first place, only elevating his confidence and rendering him evermore blind to our actual machinations.”

Bernadetta gave him a conspiratorial smile.

“You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

“The Goddess cursed this world with my existence solely so that I may make a mockery of the cruel,” Hubert replied. “May as well have fun while I’m at it.”

She gave him a fond roll of the eyes that reminded him so much of Edelgard it made his heart hurt, but her expression fell when it returned to the tea trolley.

“What’s with the… this?” she asked.

“A trap,” said Hubert, having already lost track of his too-fast thoughts from earlier.

“Ah,” said Bernadetta. “Guess you don’t want me touching any of it, then?”

“Correct,” said Hubert. “It’s not poisoned or anything, I just recall from my tea a few days ago that he has abysmal taste in victuals. Frankly the egg salad was more intimidating than his waving the Book of Seiros about.”

“Less distractions from our work, then,” said Bernadetta.

He was powerless to resist the gentle confidence of her nod, and time soon melted away in the wake of the musty power of cracked-open ledgers.

Comparing the Count’s 1160 records to his father’s of 1159 was almost comical – a younger Manfred von Varley had emulated his father’s recordkeeping right down to some of the exact numbers. Bernadetta raised the possibility that perhaps the goat-farmers’ profits had indeed remained static, after all, how much could they change in a year unmarked by any kind of disaster or miracle? But Hubert wasn’t buying that they could stay static right down to tens of gold pieces – the singles could easily be fudged, they both knew that from Garreg Mach exams. At that Bernadetta had given him a look of wide-eyed almost-awe, a kind of conspiratorial delight at the revelation that, no, she wasn’t the only one to play fast and loose with battalion supply theoretics on exams she was going to ace anyway.

“I’d never do it for _real_ ,” she added quickly, “Not when lives were on the line.”

“Of course,” said Hubert. “But I wonder if your father said that same thing to himself, thinking only of proving his County’s worth to the late Ionius, and not of the material reality of his farmers.”

He tripped over himself trying to backtrack.

“Not that your thought processes are anything like your father’s-”

“No, you’re right,” said Bernadetta, quiet. “Life doesn’t really give you a big gaudy sign when things start being ‘for real’. When you think about it, even our exams at Garreg Mach were ‘for real’, because they decided who would have the power and experience to ascend to these kinds of positions, and outfitting active battalions can be purely theoretical because, when it comes down to it, you can always redistribute supplies on the field if the situation changes.”

Hubert didn’t know what to say to that, but Bernadetta didn’t mind, just returning to her analysis. He found he rather liked having someone who ended conversations as abruptly as he did. She tended to need some kind of nonverbal assurance that she hadn’t overstepped, but a simply nod or hum was plenty for her. He found himself enjoying being on the receiving end of it, too. Edelgard was blunt enough that he never had to guess whether she was upset, and Ferdinand might have been more florid with his words but one couldn’t deny that he wore his heart on his sleeve, couched in courtesy though it may be. Hubert liked Bernadetta’s quiet thinking noises, the way she would jump back to conversations they’d left hanging hours ago, the ways she could sometimes strongarm her paranoia into working in her favour, opening new avenues of thought as yet unbeholden to anyone. But more than that he liked the idea of her working alongside him, Ferdinand and Edelgard; their four wildly different approaches to justice and rigour and logic working in tandem to create some wild nest of thought that no one could come up with alone. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of Bernadetta being saddled with the responsibilities of Countess on her own – not because she wasn’t up to it, but because he could picture such a robust network for her and Varley, if she would permit it. But, of course, the former Eagles all had their own responsibilities to bear, and it wasn’t as if he could ask Bernadetta to shoulder some of the issues of the Crown in exchange.

“Have you noticed the imbalance of incomes and expenses?” she asked.

“I don’t think there are enough expense figures to ascertain whether he’s driving to a deficit or not-”

“No, that’s exactly what I mean – the imbalance is in his reporting. He’ll spend pages pouring out the minutiae of profits earned – breaking things down by material, market, even by customer if he knows the clients – but,” she lifted up the 1162 and 1163 ledgers, “he doesn’t even get the basic details of his expenses down. In ’62 he has entries for “servants’ wages” in Harpstring and Verdant Rain Moons, but in ’63 he lists “servants’ wages” only once in the first half of the year, and in Blue Sea Moon instead of either of the established months. And in both entries he lists no breakdown of these wages. No indication of how long they were for, no list of who gets paid what rate, not even any indication of who was working for him at the time.”

“Yes…” said Hubert. “Do you think he’s trying to hide underpaying his wages?”

Bernadetta returned the ledgers to the floor where she sat, and stared at them for a while.

“I think he just doesn’t care.”

The room got dark around them. Hubert didn’t notice until he rubbed his eye and found that the text before him got no clearer. He lit the lamps manually – fire magic had never agreed with him, and _not_ because he was greasy, not matter what Linhardt said – while Bernadetta remained on the floor, taking notes in a shorthand both squashed and florid, like a trampled flower.

Hubert found an entry for some massive investment in a fishing trawler of all things, which prompted Bernadetta to go off on a surprisingly bitter rant about her father, who, she had discovered, had the world’s most boring vice. Hubert was more interested in the fact that she had shamelessly rifled through his drawers and had come away not only unscathed, but desperate for more fuel for her rage.

One of the maids came up to wheel their untouched tea-trolley away, only for another one to arrive shortly afterward with another tray, bearing a much more appealing spread of pasties and coffee and little fish rolls, which Bernadetta avoided. The coffee was good but not outstanding, and Hubert missed Ferdinand like a knife between his ribs. He looked down to where Bernadetta was drawing looping links between her shorthand notes, and remembered their conversation from the night before.

“I miss Ferdinand,” he said aloud, and felt utterly ridiculous.

Bernadetta hummed, and paused for an exceedingly long time before responding.

“I miss Edelgard.”

It did not occur to Hubert to read anything into that remark.

Page by page, day by day, they worked their way through the Varley County records and every sin they contained. Hubert found that the addition for the income was always perfect, while the expenses rarely added up, and good luck finding any actual “profit” with costs deducted from gross income. Bernadetta came across some expenses of her mother’s and got rather quiet. Hubert, unsure of how to broach the subject, found himself looking brazenly over her shoulder at the ledger in her lap, and the 35,000g expense for Garreg Mach tuition and boarding.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s not what we’re looking for.”

“You can look for as many different things you like,” said Hubert.

They were going to get through it, Hubert realised as Bernadetta wordlessly pointed out the pages in the 1178 ledger where her mother’s handwriting gave way to her father’s. They were going to sit here and get through the Count’s entire history of expenditure, and still have no idea how much his staff were getting paid or how the Manor was being cared for or whether there were any support systems for failing farmers and injured miners. They really did have proof that this man had no business being the Count of anything.

And then there was a scuffling in the corridor outside, hushed and urgent voices as Hubert realised that it was very late at night indeed, and something awful could be happening. From his sleeve a knife slipped into his hand. He rose from his seat to stand between Bernadetta and the door as he shifted his awareness to the magical wards on his room, strengthened them, honed in on Count Varley’s personal signature as a target, unafraid to hurt the staff if need be and yet sick to the stomach at the idea.

There was a timid knock.

“Who is it?” asked Bernadetta.

Hubert glanced at her, and found her to be holding a rather impressive blade of her own.

“Yves from the stables, My Lady,” came the reply, and Hubert relaxed at the familiar voice of the elderly groom. “A messenger has arrived from Enbarr.”

Hubert was at the door and yanking it open before he even remembered he was holding a weapon, finding before him a rather flustered groom and one of his agents – Vincent, from Ochs – drawn and pale and visibly panting from exertion. Wordlessly, the young man extended a handful of papers to Hubert, whose heart was pounding in his ears.

“Oh, Goddess, are you alright?” Bernadetta asked, appearing at Hubert’s right elbow.

“Rode through the night,” Vincent panted. “Nights. All safe in Enbarr,” he added, before taking a rattling breath.

“You really should be resting,” said Bernadetta. “If the situation in Enbarr is safe, then there’s no reason you can’t report in the morning, after you’ve actually had a chance to sleep.”

Hubert looked down at the pile of envelopes he had been handed. Two for him and two for Bernadetta – one each sealed with the Imperial Seal and the Seal of the Seat of the Prime Minister.

“Her Imperial Majesty… instructed I report…”

Bernadetta folded her arms and looked to Hubert. Her gaze was not so much intimidating as earnest, but all the more convincing for it. Perhaps, after spending so long sifting through the cruelties of her father, Bernadetta needed an opportunity to be kind.

“I must concur with Lady Bernadetta – you’re in no state to be reporting now, and it would only be worse for our network should you suffer serious incapacitation from failing to care for yourself,” he said. “Besides, you have delivered unto me a report straight from Her Imperial Majesty herself – surely everything I need to know is within it, no?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Vincent, drawing up to his full height. “I was instructed not to read correspondence between the former Strike Force.”

“Correct answer,” said Hubert. “Now, get some sleep.”

“You can fulfill your promise to Lady Edelgard in the morning,” said Bernadetta. “Once we’re all much more alert and better able to discuss our circumstances.” She smiled, so small yet so genuine, and Hubert realised that she did in fact genuinely care for this random man she had never met before. “Yves, is there a bed available in the servants’ quarters for – um – for our guest?”

“Plenty, My Lady,” said Yves. “We’ll get him settled, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then nodded politely to Vincent. “We’ll see you in the morning, s-sir. Oh! But don’t be afraid to sleep in if you need to!”

Vincent looked to Hubert, his expression as though he were expecting some practical joke to be revealed, and Hubert couldn’t keep the fond smile from his face as he nodded to his agent.

“You’re dismissed, Vincent. Your diligence is appreciated, both in your duties and in your maintenance of self.”

At that, Vincent had no option but to salute, still confused and out of breath, before following Yves back down the corridor, the elderly groom just barely holding himself from badgering the poor man about how he managed such excellent time from Enbarr, what kind of horses was he riding and how often was he changing them and did he know from who the Imperial Palace had acquired them?

“So,” said Bernadetta. “Edelgard’s replied to you.”

“And to you,” said Hubert, handing over her two envelopes, completely unprepared for the dawning sun of delight across Bernadetta’s face.

“Really?” she breathed. “But so fast… even with your agent going at top speed, she must have written these as soon as she received our letters…”

She was looking at the envelope as if it was at once a key to salvation and a deadly weapon, completely ignorant of the fact that Ferdinand had written to her, too. Quite the reaction… Though Hubert forced a doorstopper before his thoughts could go any further. Bernadetta was his friend, and speculating on her affections was not only rude, it bumped up against her greatest fears. If she had something to say, he would listen to it, but if there’s one thing that Hubert knew, it was that forcing out information tended to destroy any opportunity for potential alliances.

“Should we… get back to going through the ledgers?” she asked, finally looking up from her letters.

Hubert smiled, put on an air of thinking deeply.

“It’s getting quite late, and we have made such considerable progress… I think perhaps we would be better off spending our time reviewing our correspondence, so that we are adequately prepared for Vincent’s report tomorrow.”

Bernadetta grinned, but for some reason it soon disappeared, replaced by a look of apprehension, disgustingly familiar on her gentle face.

“I hope you’re not too mad that I sent him to go sleep before reporting,” she said. “I just couldn’t bear how exhausted he seemed… It was hard enough riding here for us, and we were going at a steady pace.”

“If I had been upset, I would have said so,” said Hubert. “Perhaps I needed the reminder of just how human my agents are.”

She smiled at him for that, soft in the eyes and embarrassed, as if he had just paid her some incredible compliment. The thought brought a lightness to his own heart that lingered even after she left for her room, his own words settling upon as he realised that, yes, maybe he should actually be paying attention to how his instructions were impacting his staff. He hadn’t checked in with the two remaining staff he’d brought to Varley, so busy had he been with espionage of his own. Were they bored? Overwhelmed? Had they been targeted by Count Varley himself? He’d never even thought to ask.

He sighed deep. He wouldn’t bother them now, when they were either sleeping or up to nefarious deeds of the night. Besides, he had tasks of his own to attend to, like reading Edelgard’s heavily-packed envelope of reports. But as he sat in the armchair and tore open the Emperor’s missive, he could not help but linger on the letter from Ferdinand instead. Was he doing well? No doubt any insight as to Edelgard’s mood and wellbeing would be gleaned from his letter, too, considering how loathe she was to show “weakness”, even to him, who needed to know how to best care for her. But if he intended to be true to that dedication, he would read her report first, and then deal with personal matters later.

_Hubert von Vestra,_

_Varley Manor_

_HIM Emperor Edelgard_

_12 th Day of Wyvern Moon_

_Hubert,_

_Everything is well here, so you can stop worrying. Life has continued apace here in Enbarr, and we have avoided making major decisions until you and Bernadetta return safely, though we have, of course, continued hearing grievances from the people of Fódlan in attempts to ascertain the key areas of change needed for our Empire’s wellbeing. I worry for you both, but there will be no assuaging that until you are home safe, and I have the utmost confidence in your work._

_You can go read Ferdinand’s letter now that you know everything’s okay._

Hubert couldn’t help it, he had to chuckle aloud at that. How well his oldest friend knew him, how exactly he could imagine the tired smirk on her face as she brought those words to the paper.

_There’s no arguing with an order from your Lady_ , he could hear her say with a smug shrug and that twinkle of laughter in her eyes, knowing she’d got him. He shook his head, smiling to himself.

_Very well, Your Majesty_ , he replied within his own head, and reached for Ferdinand’s letter. _Whatever you command_.

_Hubert von Vestra,_

_Minister of the Imperial Household,_

_Varley Manor,_

_Varley_

_Ferdinand von Aegir,_

_Office of the Prime Minister,_

_Enbarr_

_Twelfth Day of Wyvern Moon, 1186_

_My Dearest Hubert,_

_Thank you, my darling, for letting me know that you arrived safely so quickly, despite the little progress you could achieve in such a short period of time. I must confess I started worrying about you the moment you left the palace grounds, and I have not really calmed down since, though it warms me to know that you are settled enough to begin your usual ruthless analysis._

_I am less pleased to hear of the state of Varley, and though I am hardly surprised to hear it is being mismanaged, it is all the worse to hear details. I shudder to think at what a man must do to drive off all potential employees, leaving him staffed only by the young and elderly. Personally I find the circumstances to be reeking of a man who craves control over the easily manipulable, though logic states I should not be so judgemental until I have observed the situation for myself. I doubt it will surprise you that hearing that he shouted at our dear Bernadetta moved me to such anger that I found myself on a cross-country ride for several hours until I was too exhausted to be angry. I have written to her myself, yet I hope you will help convey to her how sorry I am that she has dealt with such base arrogance. Frankly, the more I think on it, the more I desire to saddle up this very moment and ride out to rescue the two of you._

_But, of course, the sinister Minister Vestra will accept no assistance of the sort, no matter how easy he is to throw over my shoulder and carry to safety._

_On a more serious note, I am aware that Bernadetta is attempting to use this as an opportunity to grow stronger in the face of both her past and present abuse. I am incredibly proud of her, as is Edelgard, who has said as much on a near constant basis, but I cannot help but be glad that you are there with her. I hope this will be all over as swiftly as possible. You must write to me if there is anything at all I can do to be of assistance, though I curse the time and distance between us, despite the endeavours of your admittedly speedy equestrian team._

_You must have been at Varley Manor for a week – or thereabouts – by the time you get my letter, and I cannot help but fret as to what has happened in the interim. Nonetheless, I shall endeavour to assuage your anxieties too, knowing full well that it can only be more stressful to witness the brutalities of the Count firsthand. Edelgard and I are well – physically in perfectly sound health, though the both of us find sleeping to be rather difficult at the moment. We take tea together when we happen to both find ourselves burning the midnight oil. Yes, sometimes I find myself drinking coffee at these meetings, but it is not as if I could get to sleep, anyway. I find it fain imitation of the taste of your lips, which I crave with an urgency most obscene. My desires to rush to your aid are not all virtuous in their motivation, unless one should count adoration as a virtue. As perhaps we should – every time I think I have ridded myself of the Church’s views on love and relationships and carnal matters, some new insecurity rears its head and I find myself in possession of a self-directed prejudice I did not even know existed._

_I have found myself searching for some kind of talisman of your affections in the days since we parted – worried, somehow, that I had merely imagined your desire and that you do not care for me the way I know you truly do. I think your letter shall serve such a purpose until I can hold you once more, for ever have my hesitations evaporated when I meet your gaze. I think that I am the only person in this world who knows how it feels to have you look upon me with desire so unguarded and unafraid – I cannot imagine that you understand the power it has over me, for you do so look at me as though it were no grand undertaking, despite the impact you always have. You undo me with a single gaze, Hubert von Vestra. Sometimes I feel the heat of your attention in the midst of a meeting and am overcome with a sheer need for you, to be held by you, taken by you, to feel the hot breath of your voice on my skin and your fingers in my hair. _

_I can imagine that you may not be up to such imaginings, considering the nature of your journey. I would not begrudge you such reticence in the slightest, and would instead welcome you back into my arms in any way you so wish once we are reunited. But, should you find yourself with a moment in which to relax and turn your thoughts away from your task, do not hesitate to think of me. I assure you, I have found my own thoughts fixed most resolutely to you in my time alone since we parted. Much like you, I find myself unable to sleep without my darling by my side, your head against my chest, an honour to be your pillow, or your body curled around mine, a shield against the world that seeks to intrude. I miss waking up to your lips on me, the knowledge that even if I should not accomplish anything else for the rest of the day, you would still have looked on me with such admiration and adoration, as though I had not even need earn it._

_Hah – I think I see what you meant when you wrote that it was embarrassing to commit such sentiments to paper. They seem so formal, so permanent, writ here in ink, when the proper vehicle for my musings should be whispers in your ear, barely understood by either of us except for in the most visceral sense, that knowledge that you and I are together and delight in such a state. I imagine that the only true cure for my pounding heart is to reunite with you – an occasion to which I look ever more forward to._

_I have raced off with your letter to read it and think of you and then think of you even more before blurting out this mess of a response, so I have not yet convened with Edelgard to discuss your situation in detail. I hope then that you will forgive my lack of concrete advice, and forgive me, too, for saying that your letter seemed to imply that more than anything else you desired a human connection. Consider this letter that and nothing else, then, and if you choose to bat it to the floor with a derisive little noise like a streetcat, then so be it. I cannot pretend that it is easy to be loved, but neither can I pretend that I do not love you._

_I do so love you, Hubert. No matter how your time at Varley may grind you down, remember that, and that I am eagerly awaiting the day that I may hold you once more._

_Ever yours,_

_Ferdinand von Aegir_

_P.S. When you get home you will see that some of the chocolate-covered espresso beans are gone – I assure you, that was Edelgard’s doing, not mine! You try saying no to her when she’s wandering the halls looking for a distraction at two in the morning._

Hubert let the letter rest in his hands for a moment. In a second, he’d pick up Edelgard’s report and get a better idea of her plans and perspectives on what to do next, but for a moment he let himself pause. At the very least, he could offer Ferdinand that much.

* * *

Bernadetta buried herself beneath the sheets of her bed like a bear hiding in its den, Edelgard’s letter clutched in her right hand as she returned to its beginning to read over it for a second time.

_Lady Bernadetta von Varley,_

_Varley Manor_

_HIM Emperor Edelgard_

_12 th Day of Wyvern Moon_

_My Dear Bernadetta,_

Bernie felt herself flush at the salutation. It was the same form of address as that little note Edelgard had sent her all those days ago at the start of this mess, and she still wondered at what it meant. To start a letter with “dear” was nothing at all, but to start one with “ _my_ dear”… What an impact such a small word could have! And to think back on that note was to think back, too, on the misstep that had started it, Edelgard reaching for her in a moment where she could not bear to be touched. A despondent fury filled her at the thought that Edelgard had touched her, so sweet and gentle against her cheek, and yet Bernie hadn’t been able to bear it, had been too overcome with the ghosts of her past to enjoy the present. 

She closed her eyes and let her head thump against the pillow. She’d probably ruined any chance of Edelgard wanting to touch her again. She thought of how she’d had to launch herself at Hubert in order to be held, how everyone looked at her as though she were made of glass, about to snap at any moment. How desperately she wished for Edelgard to look at her with that rare delight in her eyes, guard down and joy open. Would Edelgard ever feel that relaxed around her again?

She returned her gaze to the letter, ravenous for proof that Edelgard wanted her in any capacity.

_I am so glad to receive your letter – to hear of your safe travels and arrival calms my overactive heart._

But did her heart beat for the same reasons Bernadetta’s did? Was Edelgard merely worried for the safety of an innocent soul, or did she long to hold Bernadetta in her arms? Goddess, how empty she felt, once again all alone in her childhood bed. What would it be like to be held by Edelgard? She was so muscular – Bernadetta had found herself lingering far too long at sparring matches in the training yards for an archer, unable to look away from the incredible speed and weight of Edelgard’s limbs. There was such force in all of her movements. Perhaps, in the power of such arms, Bernadetta would finally feel the care she had been searching for.

_You mustn’t worry about your dark humour with me – my oldest friend is Hubert, remember? I’m no stranger to making the evils of this world into mockeries of themselves. Though I must admit I am glad you clarified you are indeed well, I find myself agreeing with your sentiment that one can only be so well around your father. Due to my unorthodox upbringing, and, later, your mother’s assumption of his roles, I do not know him as well as perhaps I should. From what little I have learned from Hubert’s letter, I find myself concerned for you – along with the people of Varley you have sought to liberate. Though, it is also true that I could have gleaned as much concern just by pondering the existing injuries to your heart._

She’d never thought of describing her issues like that before. Injuries to her heart. Not the physical heart, clearly, but the metaphorical one, organ of love and hope and trust. She’d never really thought of herself as _injured_ like that. She had been changed by what her father had done, there was never any denying that. But despite the gruesome nature of the metaphor, it was soothing in its own kind of way. Injuries, after all, could be healed.

_I feel I must remind you that you are free to return to us in Enbarr at any time, for any reason at all. You have endured enough of that man for a lifetime, and while I am so incredibly proud of you for wanting to stand up to him, I hope you know that there are so many of us just waiting to take him to task for his misdeeds, without putting you in the line of fire. Our dear Ferdinand is practically chomping at the bit to bring the full weight of his legislative power down on the swine’s neck, and though I am less prone to going for aggressive horse rides and stomping about the training grounds, I must say I find myself just as eager to enact your vengeance._

_But, then again, vengeance is not quite the right word, is it? For you are, after all, still with us, Bernadetta. I emphasise once again that you can – nay, must – return, should you find yourself in any danger, whether physical, emotional or of any other form, and yet, within my own heart, I feel as though no force in the world could keep you from your goal. You must not act rashly. I could never forgive myself if something were to happen to you, but at the same time, the pride I feel for you is more than the knowledge that you have come far – so far that it is almost hard to comprehend – it is, indeed, raw admiration._

“Her own heart,” laid bare to Bernadetta of all people! Bernadetta curled tighter as warmth bloomed in her chest. There were things she must not think, must not profane her friendship with Edelgard by imagining. And yet, she could not deny the effect Edelgard’s words were having on her. To have spent so long clinging to the image of Edelgard as her sole source of strength and dignity, only to have her turn around and say that _she_ admired _Bernadetta_. Her usual wave of denial and self-effacement was silent beneath a blanket of emotion so much louder, so new and bright that it blinded her, sent her heart thundering. Edelgard cared for her, urgently, ardently, like Bernadetta had never let herself hope. 

It was late. She was alone. No one would ever have to know.

In the curtained sanctum of her imagination, Edelgard stroked her hand across Bernadetta’s cheek, confident and unafraid of causing any distress. She’d come up to brush Bernie’s hair behind her ear, Edelgard’s fingers gentle but lingering, delighting in the sheer sensation of touching her, as if all the glories of becoming Emperor were nothing compared to the feel of Bernadetta’s skin beneath hers. And then her hand would grow firm, secure, cradling the back of Bernadetta’s head as she brought her close and drew her into a deep kiss. Her Emperor would hold her tight around her waist and give Bernadetta everything she wanted, and, by the Goddess, did Bernadetta want.

Edelgard’s teeth against her lips, her hands on her hips, Bernadetta could picture it all with a vividness of fantasies long repressed. Her heart raced, teetering on an edge she would not be able to come back from, and she looked to the letter for some distraction.

_I find myself wishing for your speedy return, not only because I worry for your safety, not only because I long to see you happy and at peace, painting in the greenhouses and sewing on my balcony, but because I find myself missing your insight. As we do not wish to make any major decisions without Hubert – or, indeed, without you – Ferdinand and I have been busy receiving petitions from the people of Fódlan, so that we may best know how to serve them, and what needs to be addressed in the coming months and years. I believe my skills in strategy to be adequate enough as to ascertain the causes behind each complaint, and yet I find myself overcome in attempting to deal with the human side of the situation. Each person I meet with has been dealt their own hand of tragedy and turmoil, and I find myself incapable of dealing with them at an appropriate level of tact and care. When confronted with difficulty, I respond by turning my mind to the objective, growing blunt and brutal in order to deal with the situation as effectively and efficiently as possible. And while some of the petitioners have been grateful for my action-focused response, it is clear that many wish for a kind ear and a loving heart before they can turn their minds to moving forward._

_Always, in the face of such knowledge, my thoughts turn to you._

_You are perhaps the gentlest soul I know. You would be a balm to the people of Fódlan, not merely because your experience with suffering should offer some insight – Goddess knows I have suffered, and yet I still cannot find the words to comfort others – but because in your deepest, sincerest nature, you are a good person. A delight to spend time with. It was not until parting ways with you that I realised just how much my day was brightened by having you in it._

_I miss you, Bernadetta. Not only for your invaluable assistance to the crown, but for the sheer joy you bring to me._

Bernadetta clenched her legs together, but there was no quelling her urgent heart. The earlier imaginings of her traitorous mind had her imagining bringing Edelgard a very different kind of joy, and though she instinctively found herself trying to quash the thoughts, she could not fight the thrill of desire running through her body.

Edelgard _missed_ her, she _thought_ of her, she longed to reunite with her Bernadetta – for, though Bernie could hardly expect reciprocity, she was already thinking of herself as belonging to Edelgard, in every way she would have her. When they met again, would the rush of emotion be enough to propel Bernadetta onward with the confidence to meet Edelgard with open arms and hungry lips? Would Edelgard be so delighted to see her that she would indulge in such a desperate display of affection?

The truth of it did not matter so much when the potency of Bernadetta’s imaginings were overtaking her mind. She imagined Edelgard grasping her chin with that cocksure smile of hers, giving Bernadetta a very blatant onceover, before her expression would soften and she’d say how happy she was to see her again, how eager she was to reunite with her _properly_.

Bernadetta screwed her eyes shut as she realised her hand was reaching down the front of her pants. But the pleas of decency and decorum were nothing compared to the hunger that had been brewing within her for what had to be years now. She wanted Edelgard, in all the debased and debauched ways that she had been taught were not for her. Desire was not meant to be felt by Bernadetta, it was for Bernadetta to endure – a force of the other that was to be foisted upon her. But, oh, did it feel good to want.

_I hope that, despite the nature of your task, you are still able to take time for yourself, even if it is something as simple as a moment of peace before bed._

Bernadetta whimpered. She knew full well that Edelgard wasn’t imagining her doing anything risqué in the slightest when she penned that line, and yet she couldn’t help but picture Edelgard imagining what she was doing. Maybe even touching herself to such thoughts. Her fingers found hot flesh as she imagined what Edelgard would look like, long white hair tousled against her many pillows, no doubt biting her lip in that eternal Imperial need to quash expressions of her emotions, so cute and flushed…

_It was you who awakened me to the importance of leisure, do you recall?_

Oh, Goddess, was she doing this on purpose? Bernadetta’s whole body seemed to light up with a thousand sparks at the thought. Edelgard teasing her, wanting to see her squirm… The idea was too good to be true, and yet Bernadetta would oblige her nonetheless, the imaginary Edelgard who lived in her brain and adored her just as much as she was adored in turn.

_During the war, I looked forward to those hours tending to the greenhouse alongside you with an urgency I did not realise I was capable of. It was like a taste of the future I was desperate for, a moment where I did not have to be anything but myself, to be humbled in the presence of incredible floral artworks, and the company of someone who simply enjoyed me for who I am. I still wonder what you think of me, I must admit. You were so frightful of everything – me especially! I shudder to think of how short I was with you and the rest of my classmates when we were but students – and yet you were still so eager to spend time with me, to teach me about plants and how to tend to them._

_In your absence, I have begun to frequent the palace greenhouses more often. I miss your explanations of the plants. You seemed to give them such vivid personalities – the clingy trumpet vine, the viciously self-isolating Bougainvillea, and the surprisingly tenacious lamb’s ear. I’ve found myself asking the greenhouse staff for the kind of titbits you are so generous with, and have learnt quite a deal about your favoured carnivorous plants. I had oft wondered how a plant that eats living creatures comes into existence, when the rest of its brethren are content with sunlight and soil, but apparently it is the very deficit of such nourishment that drove these plants to instead seek their nutrients from the insects around them. In doing so, they not only learned to satiate themselves, but also came to protect each other from the many pests that may otherwise have nibbled on their neighbours._

_I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but the ingenuity of these plants much reminds me of you, Bernadetta._

Bernadetta’s heart ached as she recalled her own, tentative comparison from earlier in the day.

_Initially cultivated in an environment devoid of the love you deserve, you have sought it out in different ways, and, in doing so, not only have you learned to sustain yourself, you have altered the very ecosystem around you. Having set your sights on the vermin of the world, there are no pests to eat my fruit with you around, Botanical Bernie._

Bernadetta’s eyes clamped shut, the tension in her body unbearable.

“The love you deserve…”

A sudden, rasping sob escaped her at the thought that Edelgard _loved_ her, at least somehow, in some way, enough to tell her, in a roundabout kind of fashion, couched in metaphor and concern. Sothis, what she wouldn’t give for Edelgard’s hand to take the place of her own, stroking her firm and earnest. Edelgard holding her from behind, wrapped around Bernadetta, shielding her from all the worries of the world, everything that wasn’t the heat of Edelgard’s skin, the slide of her lips against Bernadetta’s neck. Bernadetta forced her fingers to keep going even when the sensitivity slipped into too much, every slide of her fingertips causing a spasm. Edelgard wouldn’t let up on her, wouldn’t stop the press of her strong fingers inside or against her. She’d relish Bernadetta’s little pants, the curve of her smile evident as she sucked kisses into Bernadetta’s neck, bright and bruising. She’d give that quiet little laugh as Bernadetta would keen into her touch, overstimulated and yet still desperate for more, clutching not at Edelgard’s letter but the woman herself, thick arms keeping her stable on the precipice of delight. Her overenthusiasm would only delight Edelgard more, earning a harsh stroke and Edelgard’s voice in her ear, as powerful and steady as ever, but softened so that no one else may hear,

“My, how I love you, Bernadetta.”

Bernadetta’s orgasm was abrupt and brutal. A sharp inhale and her heart thundering off without her, leaving her to shudder beneath the sheets as the adoration faded and the shame set in.

It was all too much. Like a block of stone settled on her chest, a sensation so huge she could not describe it came upon her, stoppered her mouth and seized her limbs. Even the self-defacing anger could not reach her through such a shield on her thoughts. There was only a kind of horrified numbness as Bernadetta realised this was one particular action she’d never be able to undo. No matter what happened between her and Edelgard for the rest of their lives, Bernadetta would have always touched herself to the thought of Edelgard. Worse yet, she had enjoyed it, perhaps more than any other time she’d spent with herself, content with fantasies of strangers and characters, divorcing herself from the process in every way she could except for that most base of mechanical roles.

She would put it behind her. Never think of it again, much less do it again. It was the only option, for the sake of her very real friendship with Edelgard. But stopping herself from desiring such a fantasy again… If anything, she had only made herself more attracted to Edelgard, more desperate for her touch, more enamoured with the gentle teasing and blunt-force earnestness that felt like a sledgehammer to the soul.

Oh, Goddess.

Bernadetta scrunched the letter in her hands, drawing her hands up to cover her face, before immediately dropping them before hitting her forehead because, fuck, she needed to wash them. The paper flopped against her covers, a scarlet letter in more ways than the vermillion Imperial Seal, Bernadetta staring at it.

That was odd. It had landed words-down, and yet, there was a hasty scrawl on the back of the last page, done in pencil instead of the same pen as the rest of the missive. She hadn’t noticed it on her first read of the letter. Picking it back up, Bernadetta recognised that it was indeed still Edelgard’s handwriting, just done in a bit of a rush.

_Have spoken with Ferdinand – we both feel we cannot offer sufficient assistance while in Enbarr & our other duties are impacted by our worries. Now leaving for Varley immediately. Should arrive afternoon of the 15th. Looking forward to helping you in person. _

Bernadetta’s blood turned to ice. Edelgard and Ferdinand were coming here. They were coming to Varley, to see her. Bernadetta sat up, searching for the overly decorated clock on her walls. It was half past two in the morning of the fifteenth day of Wyvern Moon.

Edelgard would be arriving within hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we finally earned that explicit rating I've been dragging behind me for the past 70,000 words lmao. And would you believe it, we're getting close to the conclusion! I'd say we're definitely 2/3 of the way through the story - I'd say 3/4 but I don't trust myself to not go apeshit with the ending and just keep writing for another 50k word lol.
> 
> It's funny to think of just how much I've been through in writing this story. I won't go into detail because I know that in _these unprecedented times_ the last thing anyone wants in their escapism is more details of how 2020 sucks for individual people, so I'll give you the good news in that I've just had my 23rd birthday, have gotten a few shifts for the first time since March, and have applied for an internship! Life is still, uh, A Lot, so I really would appreciate it if you could go to my [ twitter](https://twitter.com/commanderfreddy) and click on The Link In The Bio That Takes You To A Certain Website Where You May Be Able To Tip Me, but idk, I felt like after so many authors notes of me requesting help, I'd let you know that things are not all gloom and doom and that some things are... if not looking up, then at least continue to be benign lol. 
> 
> I also have a [ tumblr ](https://commanderfreddy.tumblr.com) and a [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.qa/Freddy) both open to anon messages if u wanna ask questions without the pressure of like. A Conversation.
> 
> Have a good one, all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience in this long gap between updates!
> 
> This chapter is rated **M** : _Fade-to-black sex, attempted physical abuse, references to Edelgard's childhood torture, criminal proceedings including arrest, incarceration and discussions of execution, and a lot of political and administrative minutiae._

Hubert did not get much sleep that night. Bernadetta had burst into his room shortly after he finished reading through the jumbled end of Edelgard’s report. It seemed the Emperor had initially intended just to respond to him, but in working through her thought processes on paper, she came to the conclusion that there was no other option other than to ride out to Varley to help them in person. From the hastily scribbled postscript, it seemed Ferdinand was just as intent on coming along, though from the embarrassingly earnest sentiments in his letter, that wasn’t too surprising. They’d sent their letters ahead with one of Hubert’s speedy operatives while they readied themselves and a party for departure, though from Edelgard’s urgent estimates, they’d likely arrive less than 24 hours after their messenger.

“A _party_?” Bernadetta squawked. “Just how many people are they bringing?’

“I have no idea,” Hubert replied, rubbing his hand over his face. “Ferdinand wouldn’t be so foolish as to let Edelgard ride out with a proper guard, so that’s got to be something like ten people there – and with that many horses they’d need to bring a few stablehands, and they might be bringing along a legal advisor, Edelgard said she was interviewing someone for the task of prosecuting your father…”

“But!” Bernadetta looked around, as though she was gauging the size of the whole manor, instead of just Hubert’s sitting room. “That’s… a lot!”

“Yes,” said Hubert. “Let’s just hope we aren’t forced to have anyone of rank bunk with each other. The soldiers mightn’t mind too much – it’s better than conditions while on march, I suppose – but if they bring too many Enbarr law-school fops, they might get whiny and I don’t trust your father not to make that your fault somehow.”

Bernadetta was quiet.

“We’re going to have to tell him about this, huh?” she said, flatter than a question, but still hesitant.

“I fear springing an entire Imperial retinue on him without warning will only provoke him further, so, yes,” said Hubert. “But you mustn’t worry, I will take care of informing him of his new guests.”

“I…” Bernadetta started, and then faltered. “I feel like that’s something I should do, to help get over my fears some more, but I…” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to reset her face. “It just makes me feel nauseous, which is stupid because I was fully willing to deal with him this morning, but-”

Hubert held out his hand, palm up, as though asking her to a dance. It was a surprisingly gentle alternative to holding his hand up to silence her, and though she did not take it, she smiled as she quieted nonetheless.

“You don’t need to be able to do _everything_ ,” said Hubert. “Certainly not all the time, at a moment’s notice. Indeed, I know you have some trouble bearing bad news or making requests even to people you trust. There is no weakness in knowing your limits, and you needn’t feel obliged to define permanent ‘limits’ at all. What is easy one day may be unthinkable the next.”

Bernadetta nodded to herself, before mumbling,

“Thanks, Hubert. I guess I just wish I was stronger than I am.”

“Don’t we all?” said Hubert. “But you’ve trained your body long enough to know that rest is as important as exerting yourself, and you’ve more than stretched yourself today. I shall alert him once it’s a more reasonable time, though I might wake him up a little earlier than usual just to piss him off.”

She couldn’t hide her smile at that little petty vengeance.

Bernadetta insisted he try to get some sleep, and he only complied when she said it’d be cruel to wake up any of the servants so early considering their work conditions, and it wasn’t like he could take preparations into his own hands. Being the scion of House Vestra had endowed him with training in a great many areas, but laundering sheets was not one of them. Not that Hubert got any actual “sleep” as a physician may define it, but resting for an hour or two beneath a heavy quilt with Ferdinand’s letter clutched to his heart was… Not unpleasant.

And then, as if the sun had somehow snuck up on him, it was dawn, and there was much to do. Hubert didn’t want to trust Johannes with anything, but he was the only person in the Manor who had actually chosen to work in service, and the longest-employed by House Varley by decades. Besides, Hubert tried to reason with himself, it was one thing to let the double-crosser in on Bernadetta’s personal plans, and quite another to ask him to prepare accommodation in the very house he worked in. Though he did end up doing a thorough investigation of all the bedrooms, loathe to overlook even the most banal looking servant’s passage the way he had with Countess Jania’s bloody sulphur-hole.

Thankfully, the other rooms were all quite simple – large, certainly, as some had no doubt been intended to house the expected children of Varley, or equally noble relatives – but empty. The servant’s passage that wove through the crawlspace between them led nowhere but to other servants passages, or the kitchen, or massive walk-in wardrobes in a room Hubert belatedly realised was right next to the Count’s, and had probably been intended as the _actual_ quarters for the Lady of the House. It wasn’t until he found the nursery that he realised Bernadetta wasn’t supposed to be living in a tower, either. The large, comfortable armchairs that hadn’t been sat in for decades beckoned him, the three empty beds, so small, seemed to stare at him in their blankness. He told himself that the beds had been placed there by an earlier, more fecund leader of House Varley, that there was no reason to question Bernadetta’s status as an only child, but after everything he had born witness to over the past week, the justifications couldn’t quite stick.

He closed the door back against the musty scent of the nursery, telling himself that his old nursery back at the Vestra apartments of the palace must have looked just as creepy by now. The thought was not comforting in the slightest. But perhaps a little disgust behind his eyes was not a negative, not when was time to wake the Count.

Hubert knocked, if only for the plausible deniability against an accusation of trespassing, and then opened the door to the bedchamber off Manfred’s sitting room. It was dark inside, just as stuffy and close as the untouched nursery. But not, unfortunately, as devoid of life, as the giant canopy bed that dominated the room contained the shrivelled frame of Count Varley, sitting bolt upright and staring directly at Hubert von Vestra. He wore an expression that Hubert had only seen in the eyes of deranged soldiers, desperate to make one last kill before they succumbed to wounds that already dominated their body. He had felt it on his own face, every time he had looked over in battle and seen Edelgard beset by foes, regardless of how she fared against them. There was only one defence against such raw hatred, and that was to strike first.

“My Lord,” said Hubert, feeling both ridiculous and strangely vindictive as he fell to his knees, “I beg of you, forgive my intrusion, but I had to alert you immediately. Word has arrived from Enbarr. The Emperor will be arriving here in Varley before the end of the day.”

He lifted his head too soon, still playing that inept childish character he got so much joy out of, gauging the Count’s reaction. He looked as though he had been hit in the back of the head, eyes wide in shock, all other emotion knocked out of him.

“Why?” he breathed, after a pause that set Hubert prickling with a delightfully awkward sweat.

Now this Hubert hadn’t actually anticipated. But who was he to turn down an opportunity for improvisation?

“I don’t know,” he said, resisting the urge to put on a false stammer only because it reminded him of Bernadtta. “I think… perhaps, she is not satisfied with my progress thus far.”

“Progress?” asked the Count.

Hubert genuinely could not tell if he was confused from his recent awakening, or if he was goading him on. The scratch of his voice was a sinister reminder that Hubert had stepped beyond just antagonising him, that he had intruded on him while he was vulnerable, and that the Count would be in the right to take offence. It also somewhat obscured the speech patterns Hubert had come to understand in the past week, making him harder to read.

With no clear alternatives, Hubert answered him.

“In my attempts to prove you the best candidate for the re-created Minister of Religion position,” he said. That… was what he was pretending to do, right? Or, pretending to pretend to do, if Bernadetta was right about the Count’s assumptions that Hubert was after his land and daughter. “Of course, I could be wrong! It’s also possible she could be riding to meet and assess you in person.”

“I don’t like this, Vestra,” said the Count, quiet.

For the first time since he had arrived at Varley Manor, Hubert found himself growing truly afraid. Not on behalf of Bernadetta, not on behalf of the people of Varley, but the kind of gut-clenching, instinctual terror that comes only when the animal blood of a person senses that it is in danger, when the brain feels that it has only a second to decide whether to flee, to fight, or to freeze. Hubert had spent years training against this instinct, and yet it still took the physical anchor of swallowing, of feeling the stretch of his lungs as he breathed, to truly fight free of its clutches.

“I… must admit, I am not particularly optimistic about it myself, my Lord,” said Hubert. “But perhaps I may put you at ease, if you would tell me what about it worries you-”

“I will not,” said Count Varley, firm, as stable and confident as if he were sitting in his long-abandoned parliamentary seat instead of his bed, in his nightshirt. “Fix this,” he said, and Hubert had a thought that this was perhaps the most honest he had seen the Count the entire time he’d been in Varley.

“Of course,” said Hubert, nodding. “I-”

“You have no idea the carnage I could wreak upon your life if I so chose,” the Count interrupted, still low, exhausted. “Do not give me reason to do so.”

Hubert nodded again, and left. There wasn’t really much he could say to that that wouldn’t be digging himself deeper, both for his feigned persona, and for his actual goals. He tried to remind himself that the power Varley spoke of wielding was the political type, that Edelgard was on her way specifically to remove it, but he could not shake the memory of Bernadetta’s flinches, her vivid description of what remained of Mortiz for his parents to hold.

“Minister Vestra?”

Hubert turned to see one of the maids standing in the hall to sitting-room doorway, to whom he nodded.

“Has the Count said which rooms are available for the guests?” she asked.

“Ah, yes,” said Hubert. Some control, any control, even over leasing out a man’s unused rooms without his permission, was necessary. “Please feel free to appoint whichever – and as many – as you like. My apologies for not having more specific numbers for you.”

“That’s… fine…” said the maid, almost as if she was speaking to a small child. “Not like you could ask clarification from the Emperor!”

“Yes…” said Hubert. “I don’t think she realises that the level of logistical arrangements in peacetime visits can be just as complex as troop transport, unfamiliar as she is with peace itself. Perhaps I will speak to her about it, to avoid any further diplomatic strain.”

The maid turned pale, eyes as wide as if Hubert had just started describing his torture methods. It took Hubert a second to realise just what she was afraid of.

“She won’t get mad at me,” he said, his own tone turning smaller, quieter, something like the way Ferdinand spoke to foals. “It matters a lot to her, feedback and discussions of lives she hasn’t been able to live. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if she would like to talk to you and your colleagues once she arrives – get some of your opinions.”

The baby animal voice clearly wasn’t working, because the maid seemed to have clammed up completely in defence, elbows tight against her body like she was trying to make herself too small to eat.

“I should… get back to readying the rooms. Minister.”

She gave a quick curtsey, waited for his quiet “Of course,” and bolted.

Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose. No use worrying about all that. Or, at least, he didn’t have the energy to. There was work to be done.

* * *

Bernadetta hated how inept she felt against the tidal wave of preparations. She wasn’t _useless_ when it came to domestic duties – beyond her sewing hobbies, being on the march with an army had more than acquainted her to doing her own laundry and scrubbing rust from every metal imaginable – but being self sufficient was very different to managing a household. With the Varley constituent rather adrift at the idea of hosting so many people, Hubert’s operatives finally stepped up to put their skills to use, though they forewent their many poisons to instead put their more domestic training to use, guiding the staff in accommodating what could be over twenty people.

The maids not only had to wash sheets bigger than anything Bernadetta had handled before, but they had to hunt down basins and kettles and tubs and glassware for the cabinets of every single room, ready to refresh the Imperial retinue after their long journey. Mina was trying to figure out how to feed a group of what could be twenty people on zero notice and still have enough to cater for them for – what? Another week? No one knew how long they’d be staying. Oskar and Luka were busy trying to fashion beds out of raw hay and what they could scrounge from the village so the soldiers could have the servants’ beds, as there was no way they could offer the lesser pallets to _Imperial bodyguards_ , and Johannes was pulling out tea trolleys from the musty depths of the Manor, pre-prepping them with tea sets and hot water bottles.

So many people expecting to be waited on, and so few to serve them… The thought brought legitimate embarrassment to Bernadetta’s face. She resolved that, from her at least, the staff would receive no order she couldn’t just go get for herself.

She ended up outside with the grooms, mucking out the stables and jury-rigging up an extended pasture and shelter for the absolute cavalry that would soon descend on them. Equestrian care, at least, was a skill that hadn’t faded, and there would never be too much difference in shovelling shit from one stable to another, so long as you knew where the compost heap was. It was strangely vindicating in a way, to drive fenceposts into the Varley dirt for the sole reason of protecting a creature entirely at her mercy. It felt like she had achieved something, even though their canvas-covered lean-to was perhaps a little smaller than Bernadetta had hoped. She was the only one with any experience in building such a thing, and she’d only ever build sniper shelters for herself, her horse sent back with whoever had accompanied her to her nest until the violence was done.

“I just hope it’s up to Ferdinand’s standards,” she panted after they’d filled it full of what straw was deemed unsuitable for servants’ pallets.

“My word, yes,” said the elder groom. “To fall short of the Prime Minister’s expectations would be a grave misstep indeed.”

Bernadetta gave a little laugh, and he looked at her.

“He wouldn’t get all pissy about it, or anything,” she said with a finishing giggle. “Honestly, I can only imagine him vaulting the fence and fixing it himself. He just has such a care for horses. I’d… like to live up to that compassion.”

The groom thought to himself for a while, but only came out with,

“Prime Minister _Aegir_?”

Bernadetta chuckled awkwardly, shaking her head.

“Things are… different, now,” she said. “We’re not our fathers.”

“Oh! No! Of course not, my Lady, I didn’t mean to imply-”

“It’s okay,” said Bernadetta. “You didn’t.” She smiled, exhausted from the work, and from the constant reassurances.

Was this ever going to be over? Was anyone ever going to feel comfortable talking to her in a way that didn’t make her feel like she was a baby bird, always prone to the slightest injury? She tried to remember that they acted that way because they cared, but… how much did they actually? How much of it was just chasing the ideal of being “a nice person” – not to mention the fears baked into the people of Varley, the knowledge that being anything other than fawning over the aristocracy was only a guarantee of despair? 

She looked to the groom, but he was already talking about checking the kitchens for anything they could use as an extra water trough, so she let him, nodding along. Maybe she’d never find a place in these peoples’ lives. They certainly had no obligation to let her in, after everything that had been done to them for the sake of uplifting her family. But if they chose to move on without her, how exactly was Varley to be governed? The idea of establishing a kind of Roundtable of prominent citizens – similar to the structure of the Alliance, only on a much smaller scale – had been kicking around her head for a while, but she couldn’t shake the worries of Mina’s sister, Erna, who had feared a Varley abandoned by the crown without a direct link to the aristocracy. Certainly Edelgard wouldn’t _want_ to overlook anyone, but the actual mechanisms that brought their issues to her attention… what would they be without someone in Enbarr? Or was she just being selfish in her underestimation of the people, desperate to have a reason to maintain her status when it was no longer needed?

“Lady Bernadetta!”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Oskar’s voice, the young footman racing toward her from the Manor. She did her best to fight down the automatic feeling that something was truly, terribly wrong, and met his gaze.

“We’ve spotted them! From upstairs – they’re just over the hill! Should be here in only ten minutes or so!”

For a strange, silly moment, Bernadetta wanted to ask who “they” were, until, of course, she realised he meant the Imperial party. It seemed… absurd that they’d be here already, that after so long of facing her father and his failures, she was minutes away from seeing Edelgard again. Would she even be able to tell Bernadetta had changed? Or was it all just an illusion born of desperation, and Bernadetta was still the same terrified little creature that Edelgard first met at the monastery?

“Um… I brought you a hairbrush, Lady Bernadetta,” Oskar said, holding out a silver shape. “Building a stable is no easy task, I suppose.”

She smiled at him, so genuinely in awe of his gesture.

“Thanks, Oskar.”

She looked down at the brush, its polished silver back too beset with filigree to show her expression.

“And… you can call me Bernie, if you like. Or Lady Bernie, I suppose, if your training holds too fast.”

“Really?’ asked Oskar, disbelieving but also, it seemed, genuinely excited. “What did I do to deserve _that_? Surely not just a hairbrush,” he joked.

Bernie laughed at his joke as she began to comb hair that had returned to its childhood birdsnest.

“You didn’t have to earn it at all,” she said.

The entire Varley contingency gathered on the lawn outside the Manor entrance to welcome the Emperor, Hubert and Bernadetta pushed in front of the servants in what Bernie had first thought to be obsequience but soon realised was more likely apprehension. She was at once both afraid and hopeful that her father would continue lurking in his rooms, but he emerged eventually, accompanied by Johannes. The footman stood tall, looking ahead, as Varley whispered away to him. Bernadetta couldn’t hear what he was saying but, suddenly, found that she didn’t care. Edelgard was coming, and so nothing else mattered.

The Imperial banner was the first thing to crest the hill to the west and Bernadetta felt more than heard the staff begin to murmur behind her back. But for her, the sight only fed her growing sense of calm. How many times had that flag been a signal of rescue, of ceasefire, during the war? And now here it was again. Behind it rode a row of knights, about ten horses wide, just as Hubert had predicted, though they seemed to be well in front of the rest of the party, for there was a horrid, tense gap as they crested and nothing followed.

And then Edelgard appeared. Flanked by two other riders – though whether they were more guards or Ferdinand and a companion, Bernadetta could not tell. Edelgard herself, however, was unmistakable. She wore her full Imperial regalia, the massive framework of a dress draped in crimson velvet she had worn into battle with shielding sewn right into her bustle as she tore like a meteorite through her foes, and marvel of sharp-hewn momentum and glory. Even in the faint light beneath Varley clouds, she seemed to glow like a flame, tearing across the grass.

Behind them rode a smattering of servants, and bringing up the rear at a distance was yet _another_ row of guards. Bernadetta felt her stomach clench in embarrassment. Did Edelgard think she needed rescuing? Or did she think she was riding into an active combat zone, Fódlan about to fall into yet another civil war at Bernadetta’s inept hands? She tried to steel herself, clenching hands pink from the chill. Whatever Edelgard thought of her, she would have to find a way to deal with it. She had come this far, after all.

The vanguard knights arrived before the gathered Varley Manor residents and remained mounted, staring straight ahead, much to the unease of the staff behind Bernadetta. She was sure her father would have something to say about that, but she did not try to listen for him. She was busy watching Edelgard, riding down the corridor formed between mounted knights. From the flash of orange beside her, she gathered that was indeed Ferdinand she was riding with, abreast with someone she didn’t recognise, but Bernadetta could not tear her eyes from her Emperor’s face. She had seen that expression so many times, she had forgotten how it had hurt. Face closed and drawn, wracked with the utmost worry and yet still ready to accept that some tragedies were inevitable. It was the face she wore when facing down an overpowering force, when she heard the petitions of the people, when she reckoned with the cost of her war.

How Bernadetta longed to wipe it away.

Edelgard dismounted in a movement powerful and fluid, all the more impressive considering the massive bulk of her regalia, her warhorse waiting patiently as she, Ferdinand and their guest approached the assembled crowd. It wasn’t until Hubert dropped to his knees – ever the perfect retainer – that Bernadetta realised that she was, in fact, in public, in front of people who had never seen the Emperor before, and should probably offer them at least some guide as to behave. The stretch of her knees reminded her of that first time she had met Edelgard at Garreg Mach, both of them sheltered and awkward and terribly inept at handling their own ranks, Bernadetta throwing herself to the floor and Edelgard getting so frustrated she tried to lift her back to her feet. That had, of course, resulted in a panic attack, and the two of them had ended up with possibly the worst first impressions ever. But now, Bernadetta kept her head low as gold-plated greaves stepped into view.

“Bernadetta,” Edelgard said, breathy, as though she could not believe she was truly seeing her friend.

Bernie lifted her head to find a fine white glove outstretched to her.

“Are you well?”

And Edelgard’s voice was so familiar. Not the tentative baby-bird tone she and so many others had taken with Bernadetta when she was in the throws of her insecurities, not the awkward callousness of a teenager unused to friendships, not the bland inquiry of a diplomat still in training, but an honesty that Bernadetta had only heard under the cover of night. In the unquiet recovery after a battle, amidst the sounds of armour repairs and the moaning of the injured, Edelgard would take a seat beside one of her Eagles and ask them how they had fared in the battle. Bernadetta had always had trouble responding, still wracked with the close-minded survival drive of battle, and hemmed in by her own fears of fear, but Edelgard had stayed beside her nonetheless, taking her silence as a response in its own right. And that was how she spoke then, on the scrubby lawns of Varley, hand millimetres from Bernadetta’s cheek as she desperately sought to know whether Bernadetta was alright.

Bernadetta could not stop the grin that split her face, nor could she stop herself from springing up, cavalry thighs propelling her up to throw her arms around Edelgard and draw her close, a burst of delighted laughter from her own throat and a sputter from Edelgard’s. But she did not feel as though she had overstepped, not when Edelgard’s silk gloves rested against the small of her back and the Emperor stood sturdy, braced against Bernadetta’s onslaught. She was simply delighted to feel the warmth of Edelgard’s face against her own, the solidness of her body beneath her arms. Though, the thought of Edelgard’s body had her drawing back as quickly as she had approached, afraid of stepping into uncharted territory.

“I’m in _excellent_ health,” she said, if only to distract from the hug. “And… all the happier to have you here.”

Edelgard relaxed, a rather exhausted smile coming to her face.

“I can tell,” she said, and then seemed almost surprised by the statement herself. “And I am so glad to hear it. Despite your letter, I couldn’t help but worry that you were putting on a brave face while struggling more than you wanted to admit.”

“It’s… not been a walk in the park or anything,” Bernadetta said, quieter, but no less happy. “But there’s a world of difference between a hard-won victory and a failure.”

“Well said!” Bernadetta turned to her right to see Ferdinand, his fingers lingering too long against Hubert’s after their handshake. “I must say, it is an absolute delight to see you in such good spirits. And to finally meet the lovely people who run your home!”

Bernadetta turned back to follow his gaze, only to find Oskar and Luka staring at each other like they were debating whether or not to run, with Mina behind them with a look of manic excitement on her face.

“The Prime Minister is buff as shit!” she whispered entirely too loudly to the groom beside her, who elbowed her in the ribs.

“Prime Minister Aegir.” Count Varley’s voice was clipped, smooth and in control as he strode to the front of the crowd, the staff scrambling out of his way. “And Your Imperial Majesty.” He swept into a low bow after nodding to Ferdinand, quickly returning to his full height. “An honour to receive you both to the halls of Varley.”

Bernadetta refused to turn to face him properly, and Edelgard and Ferdinand remained angled toward her, a coil of tension burning ever brighter within her with each passing second.

“Indeed,” said Edelgard after an intense moment of staring. “Do accept my apologies for the short notice. I do not intend to make a habit of it, and I am prepared to compensate you however you wish for the inconvenience.”

She did not blink while speaking. The Count, however, waved off her offer with a unnervingly blasé attitude.

“There’s no need for that, Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, “I understand your haste completely. It can be… disconcerting to be unable to observe one’s agents from a distant. I’m sure an accomplished military leader such as yourself is more comfortable on the front lines, as it were.”

Edelgard glanced quickly at Hubert before responding.

“I certainly hope I have not given you the impression that I view Varley as any sort of contested territory,” Edelgard replied, voice earnest and a little pointed.

“Merely an expression, My Lady,” replied the Count. “Please, consider me merely in awe of your achievements on the battlefield.”

Edelgard gave a slow, conciliatory nod, which seemed to Bernadetta to say _I shall consider what I please_.

“But we may discuss your visit in much greater comfort inside, if you please,” he said, with a sweeping gesture toward the Manor.

“Of course,” said Edelgard. “The Prime Minister, Lady Themis and I would be glad to dine with you once we have our horses settled.”

“Lady Themis?” Count Varley asked, even as Edelgard turned to take her steed’s reins. “My word, it has been quite some time.”

“Indeed,” replied the mysterious third person who had been riding with Ferdinand and Edelgard.

Bernadetta knew little of the Duchy of Themis due to its constituent counties’ meagre populations – Nuvelle was, after all, a part of the Duke’s holdings. She knew even less, however, about the House of Themis. The young lady that stood before her was in her late twenties or early thirties – too old to be a part of Bernadetta’s own Garreg Mach cohort, and yet too young to have established enough of a name for herself to be heard of by a young noble hermit. She was petit in height and figure, adorned in storybook levels of ringlets and pink, and yet she wore an expression as stony as a soldier’s, golden riding crop held lightly but ready in her left hand.

“Tell me, how _is_ your father?” asked the Count. “I seem to recall the Emperor held him in high esteem.”

The Lady Themis tossed her hair with a haughty movement and, despite her height and title, managed to look down on the Count.

“Papa is settling into his role as Minister of Finance most excellently,” she said. “I must say, staying away from Insurrections does _wonders_ for your political career.”

Bernadetta felt her heart skip at the idea of someone being so bold to her father as to bring up his role in the disenfranchisement of the previous Emperor. But her father was, as ever, quick to turn someone’s words against them.

“It seems embracing them has a similar effect, would you say, Minister Vestra?” he turned to Hubert with a smile, though Hubert’s own face did not move when faced with his role in installing Edelgard to power.

“Ultimately the only thing guaranteed to benefit one’s political career is _winning_ ,” Hubert replied, “Regardless of what sort of opportunity or circumstance one finds oneself in.” He turned to Bernadetta as he accepted the reins to Themis’s horse from Ferdinand without looking. “Bernadetta, could you please show Lady Maribelle to her quarters? We’ll take care of her horse.”

“Of course!” squeaked Bernadetta, her throat still tight from the tension between everyone.

And Lady Themis smiled at her, so genuine and sweet that it seemed to skip right over pitying into some strange, uncharted territory of trust. From a woman she’d never even seen before! And it got even odder, when the Lady linked her arm with Bernadetta’s and began to stride toward the Manor. It was all Bernadetta could do to keep up, looking over her shoulder to Hubert, who only nodded in thanks, or was it reassurance? Why was the Lady Themis with the Imperial party anyway?

“S-sorry that I haven’t met you before,” Bernie said as they entered the echoing marble halls of Varley Manor. “I didn’t have a very… orthodox upbringing. So I’m not really the, uh, people type.”

“And that is precisely why I am here,” said Maribelle with a gentle pat to Bernadetta’s arm. The simple touch sent electricity through her veins, as though she were doing something incredibly scandalous.

“Sorry?” asked Bernadetta.

“My father may have been named the Minister for Finance, but that is solely due to the Emperor’s admiration for his character and ability in taking over the export regulations of Nuvelle, and the like,” Maribelle explained. “Hereditary duties are _so_ passé,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

Bernadetta gave a weak laugh at what she assumed was a joke.

“That’s, ah, kind of what I’m trying to accomplish with my father,” she said. “Bust up the old hierarchies and all that.” She scratched awkwardly at her neck as they came to the great staircase.

“What _we’re_ attempting to do with your father,” said Maribelle. And then, once they had reached the landing, she swept into a dramatic bow. “Minister for Justice, incumbent, Maribelle von Themis, at your service.”

“Oh!” cried Bernadetta, and then quieter, “Oh. So you’ll be…”

“Judge presiding, if all goes according to plan,” she said, before taking Bernadetta’s arm once again. “And knowing how grim-faced the Emperor and Prime Minister have been on the ride here, the plan _will_ be executed, no matter what.”

“Oh dear…” Bernadetta breathed. “I hope I haven’t upset them too much. I-it’s really not that urgent or anything.”

Maribelle gave a surprisingly booming laugh, nonetheless refined and ladylike in its sonorous tone.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” she said. “Frankly, to hear the Emperor talk, one would think you were some kind of superhuman! No, her worry stems from your father, and the many faces he wears. She and the Prime Minister believe that, no matter what you do, he will find a way to make his defeat seem injust, at least in the eyes of the Empire they _intend_ to build. And even if the sentence is… punitive enough to prevent him from appealing, they are quite intent on making an example out of this whole affair.”

She sighed, shaking her head as Bernadetta steered her toward one of the nicer rooms.

“I do wish they understood how complex the matter of precedent truly is – bringing your father to task does not mean that every single corrupt noble in the Empire can then be dealt with in exactly the same way…” she shook her head. “But the future belongs to the future, and I shall not burden you further! I’ll let the staff know when I’m done removing the dirt of the road from myself, and we shall get down to brass tacks.”

And with that, she shut the indicated door firmly in Bernadetta’s face. Bernie blinked. She didn’t feel offended – Goddess knew she was glad she wasn’t expected to make comment on any of _that_ – but she was, nonetheless, off guard.

Had Edelgard really been speaking so highly of her? She blushed, squeezed her palms to fight off the frivolous thoughts as she headed back to find the others. What exactly _was_ Edelgard’s plan, anyway? Bring her father to trial, sure, but there were quite a few steps between “have a magistrate in his house” and “having him arrested”. At least, she thought they were. Varley Manor may have had more servants than necessary, but it didn’t have any combatants, and Edelgard had just brought down a full guard regiment. Could they just… overpower him? Slap some cuffs on him and lock him in his room? There was no way it could be that simple.

“My word, Lady Bernadetta-”

Her head snapped up to see Johannes standing before her, watery eyes sympathetic.

“-You look deep in thought, indeed,” he finished. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, no,” she replied automatically with a shaky laugh. “Just worried about the Emperor’s visit going well and all!” And then some tension within her escaped in a sigh, like steam from a kettle, and she realised just what kind of obstacle they may have to deal with in arresting her father.

“Johannes?” she asked.

“Yes, My Lady?” he replied, as though he had been expecting something from the beginning.

“You take your duties to my father very seriously,” she started.

“Of course.” Something had closed off behind his eyes. “I could do no less.”

Bernadetta’s brow crumpled.

“I…” She could not shape the words, could not bring the thought to reality. “If something happened to my father, would you feel obliged to help him?”

“If something happened?” Johannes repeated. The faintest crease had appeared in his brow. “I would help him to his feet if he fell from his horse, I’d call for doctors if he fell ill-”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Bernadetta, voice racing and close to snapping.

“Then please,” he said, sounding exhausted. “Be specific.”

Bernadetta closed her eyes, stood still as she felt the beating of her heart begin to slow, to come down from its horrid high.

“If the Emperor were to arrest him, what would you do?”

Johannes was quiet for a moment, and Bernadetta could not bring herself to look him in the eye, though she forced herself to look at least at his nose. She could not abandon him completely.

“I am a loyal son of the Empire,” he said. “I could never question the word of the Emperor. But as long as Count Varley was permitted to be waited upon, whether in study or cell, I would see to his needs, as I have sworn to do.”

Bernadetta nodded, more melancholy than the response should have made her.

“And at the trial? If you were asked to speak?”

“I would tell the truth,” said Johannes.

At this, Bernadetta felt a little smile return to her face, tired though it may have been.

“That is all I could ask of you,” she said.

“You could ask more,” said Johannes. “I would do more for you, My Lady.”

“No,” said Bernadetta immediately. “No, you will tell the truth, as the law demands,” she said, hoarse. “And if my _father_ asks more of you, I ask you to consider who stands taller – him, or the law itself.”

“But,” started Johannes, genuinely confused. “Your father is a maker of the law, its executioner.”

Bernadetta felt her stomach tighten. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the people of Varley – of so many towns and cities across Fódlan – had not been there to see the Archbishop slain by Edelgard’s mortal hands. Power, in their eyes, was not something that could be dismantled or redistributed, only wielded against them with all the grace and force of a hammer.

“Um, think of it like this,” said Bernadetta. “A blacksmith is the one who makes the sword, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be used against him. He’s still just a man, of flesh and blood and flaws. The same goes for anyone, whether they’re a breadmaker or a lawmaker.”

“I… suppose,” said Johannes. “But, if you will forgive me, My Lady, a sword is a much more direct and efficient weapon than a law.”

Bernadetta gave him a shrugging smile.

“I can’t argue with that,” she said. “And… I can’t ask you to cast aside an entire life’s worth of experiences and concerns and values and fears just because there’s a new person sitting on the Throne of Enbarr. But, I do want you to know, no matter what happens, you’re under my protection, for as long as you live.”

Johannes let out a surprised burst of laughter, and for just a second he was the man she had grown up with, making sure she knew when her father was in a bad mood or when Moritz was lingering around the cellar door, waiting for her. But his mirth soon faded, and he looked down at her with regret in his eyes.

“I am sorry, My Lady Bernadetta, that I could not do the same for you.”

He bowed low, so low as to be offensive to the hundreds of people who outranked Bernadetta, and before she could shape her shocked tongue into a response, a plea that no, that hadn’t been his job, that he had done so much for her regardless, that it was no one’s _obligation_ to undo the evil of a man that stood above them, he swivelled on his feet and began to walk back to the servants’ passage.

She watched him go, a bare head that should have still held hair disappearing into the gap in the walls. There was a good few seconds of silence before she willed herself to move on. While the snakes that roiled within her stomach may have whispered “your fault”, “you should have done something”, she swallowed them deeper. She hadn’t done anything, not when Johannes had been disfigured, not when he had been abused so many times throughout her life. But she could do something now.

Lifting up her skirts, she dashed over to Hubert’s room where they had left the Varley ledgers from the night before. Within moments she was knocking on Maribelle’s door, firm and confident, shoving the full bag of books into the Magistrate’s hands the second she answered the door.

“These are my father’s ledgers for his entire reign,” she said. “If you’re going to be the judge, you should… judge them.” She winced at how stupid that sounded, but pressed on all the same. “There’s more records, unsorted stuff, in his library study. I…” She nodded to herself. “I’ll go get them for you.”

* * *

Hubert hovered around Edelgard like a particularly worried bee, even after he had brought her to her chambers, even after she had brushed him off from her regalia, saying that she had to keep it on despite the sweat of the road, that she had to remind Count Varley who, exactly, he had pissed off.

“Hubert, _really_ , none of this is necessary,” she said, pulling the cloth from his hands and dabbing at her own forehead. “What’s gotten into you?” She paused, a dark cloud passing behind her eyes. “Has something happened? Is Bernadetta okay?”

“Nothing has happened,” Hubert replied immediately. “That is, nothing we weren’t expecting. And Bernadetta is quite well, really, I would have told you if anything were amiss.”

“Amiss?” laughed Edelgard. “That’s rich – the man’s whole existence is amiss. Why are you fretting about _me_ when Bernadetta has to deal with-”

“Bernadetta has been doing remarkably,” said Hubert. “She isn’t the one who came riding up from Enbarr after our very first report with a full retinue of soldiers ready for a fight.” He sighed. “Lady Edelgard, forgive me. I merely worry about the level of stress this has caused you. I do not want to see you thrown back into the mindset of war at the first sign of any trouble.”

Edelgard was quiet, the two of them staring at each other as Edelgard’s maids made excuses about seeing to Maribelle and Bernadetta, hastily bowing out of the room.

“Do you think me a warmonger, Hubert?”

“ _No_ , Your Majesty,” Hubert responded, so fervently and so quickly he seemed to trip over his own tongue.

“It was a genuine question,” said Edelgard, voice quiet.

“And a genuine answer,” said Hubert. “Do you truly still harbour some ill-placed regrets? Hopes that a thousand-year-old monster with an extrajudicial army and stranglehold on culture could have somehow been peacefully persuaded to – what? Step down?”

“You and I both know that actions taken cannot be changed,” said Edelgard, voice firm once more. “But I am talking about the future. Are we… going about this the wrong way?”

“We cannot doubt our path, Your Majesty.”

“Hubert, for goodness’ sake, this is supposed to be our new world,” she snapped. “If we cannot make it a just one, then there was no point to any of it – not our losses, not our victories. Doubting it is the only thing we _can_ do!”

There was more silence, Hubert dwelling on her words until, miraculously, a smile began to spread across his lips.

“What?” asked Edelgard, eyes narrowed.

“Forgive me, My Lady,” said Hubert. “But your words only make it all the clearer that you have spent the last two weeks with Ferdinand.”

Edelgard rolled her eyes, but a smile of her own was beginning to form.

“I shall take that as a complement, then, coming from you.”

“ _My Lady_ ,” said Hubert, in what was the closest thing his smooth baritone had to a whine.

“ _My Hubert_ ,” Edelgard mimicked back to him.

The two of them shook their heads at each other, smiling like the children they had not allowed to be, until the moment faded.

“A formal trial presided over by a just magistrate is the best option for both victims and perpetrator, in my opinion,” Hubert said eventually.

“That is your honest belief?” Edelgard asked.

“If anything, I believe it is too kind to the Count.”

“Hubert.”

“You have not…” Hubert tightened, the need to hold back his deliberately cultivated cruelty in front of Edelgard as strong as ever. “The man treats the existence of his daughter as an insult to his person. The way he acts… Even after all this time, I still don’t have a good hold on his true personality – what he is beneath all of his noble words and practiced roles. I could not tell you which of his outbursts were spurned by what he felt to be genuine insult, and which came from a sheer love of exercising power. If you want my most honest beliefs on the man, it would be that, had I properly known him before your ascension to power, I would have disposed of him with the rest of them.”

“I see,” said Edelgard. “If it is my turn for honesty, I must say that I do not relish the idea of attempting to corner a man so capricious with charges based mainly on his character. This will not be an easy trial.”

But at her words, Hubert felt his heart growing lighter.

“I have some good news on that front,” he said. “We have recovered many of the Count’s personal files, including the official ledgers for finances spent and received under the Varley name. Evidence of outright embezzlement is difficult to discern, but only due to his negligence in recording _any_ of his expenses.”

“Oh?” said Edelgard. “Well done, Hubert. Dereliction of this duty should count as a serious failing considering the scope of his responsibilities. Good find.”

And Hubert smiled again, but instead of the teasing look between two friends, it was a fondness as he shook his head.

“I am afraid I cannot take credit for this discovery,” he said. “Not only did Bernadetta know where they were, but after our first failed attempt to retrieve them, she went back on her own and got them all from his study.”

“First failed attempt?” asked Edelgard. “What exactly do you mean by ‘failed’? What happened to Bernadetta?”

“Edelgard,” said Hubert, which he never did. “She is fine. I warped her out of there when we heard her father approaching. Why are you so convinced something awful has happened to her?”

“Because this is my fault!” Edelgard snapped. “I’m the one who asked her to come back here – at her mother’s funeral of all times! And no matter how I tried to take it back, to say that she didn’t have to, I planted that seed in her mind. Made her think that I somehow needed her to do this. I need to own up to my failures, Hubert, and even if we manage to deal with the Count in a perfectly just and effective manner, this will still be a failure of mine, at least between me and Bernadetta.”

Hubert sighed. By the Saints he was terrible at this emotional balancing stuff, but at least he was getting good enough to sense that whatever Edelgard was telling herself wasn’t healthy.

“Just because you didn’t take the best action or use the best words, doesn’t mean it’s a _failure_ ,” he said. “You… upset Bernadetta, at the funeral. There is no denying that. And I don’t doubt that you also played a large role in her decision to return to Varley – though I also do not wish to rob her of her own agency, which she has deliberately leant into throughout the course of the trip, as she desires, entirely of her own volution, to do right by the people of her home. But just because you contributed to her coming here, and did so in a way that you regret, doesn’t mean that this was an inherently negative experience for Bernadetta. I assure you, she does not think ill of you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Edelgard muttered.

Hubert couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“It’s impossible not to know, what with how often she speaks of you,” he said. “And, mark my words, it is always positive.”

Edelgard folded her arms, scowled at nothingness as she seemed to wrestle with some emotion, refusing to let it show on her face.

“I can’t expect her to stand up for herself,” she said, quiet, after a moment. “Not because I don’t think she could manage it, or…” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve already expected so much of her. The least I can do is make criticising me easier.”

“Respectfully, Your Majesty,” said Hubert, “I don’t think this excessive self-flagellation will in any way assuage her fears. If anything, I believe you will only make her feel guilty. Recall how uncomfortable you were around her own self-effacement when we were students-”

“Alright, alright,” snapped Edelgard. “That’s fair. But I don’t…” She sighed, shook her head, set her crown and jewels rattling. “This is all far too complicated. What I wouldn’t give for a lever to pull to make everything right between us.”

“You will be alright, My Lady,” said Hubert. “As I said, Bernadetta certainly holds no grudge.”

“I know,” said Edelgard, “But she should be allowed to.”

Hubert let the matter drop, left Edelgard to her brooding as she chugged glass after glass of water – the regalia certainly looked awful to go riding in, but she wouldn’t let him touch it beyond straightening hems and realigning tassels. She wouldn’t even let him redo her hair, worried it would take too long. She would “deal with” the itch and the sweat, she assured him, and while he – naturally – demurred, he couldn’t help but worry for her. If this she was this strung out here, having seen that Bernadetta was safe, how had she been coping back in Enbarr? She got little enough sleep as it was.

Even his eagerness to see Ferdinand again faded beneath his worry for his oldest friend, who waved him off with one hand and begged for reassurance with the other. He sat beside her at the vanity, let her rest her head on his shoulder as they had done ever since she had first returned from that dark place with ghastly white hair and the eyes of a stranger. She breathed, long and deep, but never quite reaching any level of peace.

“Perhaps I’m just tired,” she said eventually, though she didn’t sound convinced.

“No doubt that is a significant factor, indeed,” said Hubert.

There was a knock at the door. It was Maribelle, standing arms akimbo, flanked by Ferdinand and Bernadetta. They both seemed strangely subdued compared to the flaring ferocity of the Magistrate, but despite his exhaustion and concern, Ferdinand still looked so alive. So bright, so _real_ compared to Hubert’s memories of him, that he felt his heart softening even as concern spiked at the appearance of this strange party.

“Well?” asked Maribelle. Hubert had known her quite well when he had been young and she was a teen, and it looked like – despite her dedication to Edelgard’s revolution – none of the nobility baked into her bones had faded. “Shall we get on with it?”

“They’ve finished preparations for dinner,” Ferdinand explained. “The Count is expecting us.”

And while Hubert was still lost in the delight of hearing Ferdinand’s voice again, his ability to make even the most staid sentences captivating, engaging, of the utmost importance, Edelgard was giving a sharp nod.

“Best to get it over with,” she said.

It was an awkward walk, Hubert torn between his need to hover by his Lady’s side and his desire to devote his attention to Ferdinand, even if an embarrassment of companions kept him from saying anything. Thankfully, Lady Maribelle had no qualms about filling the silence with her chatter. From the snippets he heard she seemed to be discussing evidence law and the ethics thereof, but Hubert could not bring himself to give a damn. Evidence was evidence, regardless of how it was acquired and, besides, Ferdinand was walking beside him, looking at him with eyes that burned, low and bright.

“It is good to see you again,” Ferdinand said, as earnest as he could make the simple words.

Hubert had damn near forgotten his own insistence on keeping the nature of their relationship a secret, and if it weren’t for his horrid cocktail of exhaustion and tension in anticipation of dinner, he’d have jumped on the Prime Minister then and there.

“Likewise,” he managed to reply without launching himself anywhere. “I suppose it is too much to ask that you took care of yourself in the interim, but I hope at the very least you’ll be able to sleep better having seen our progress with your own eyes.”

Ferdinand hummed.

“The Lady Varley has been gracious enough to assign me such a charming bedchamber – I do look forward to putting it to use.”

Hubert couldn’t help but feel that was, perhaps, laying it on a bit too thick. He just hoped Bernadetta and Edelgard were too engrossed listening to whatever Maribelle was saying – or even just that strangely loaded eye contact they were making – to pay attention. And then, all at once, they were upon the dining room.

“Listen,” he heard Bernadetta say to Edelgard, quiet and urgent. “I’m not supposed to dine with my father. He…”

“It’s alright,” Edelgard replied, and by Seiros did she sound a thousand times calmer than she had in her room. “Hubert told me of his outbursts. I shall endeavour to keep myself from cutting him down where he stands.”

She paused, no doubt expecting laughter, or perhaps a smile, but the air grew even thicker when she received none.

“I am the Emperor,” she said, and Hubert had to wonder who she felt the need to tell. “I can make it clear that I am on your side without jeopardising everything.”

“I just want this to be over,” Bernadetta whispered.

But Hubert could not turn back to comfort her, to even see how Edelgard reacted, for the guards had opened the doors, and he was being ushered to a pulled-out seat by Luka. He felt his bile rise as he saw the Count already present, and seated in his usual spot at the head of the table. Hubert supposed it wasn’t _technically_ a breach of decorum considering they were in the man’s own home, but good Goddess, to not even _offer_ the pride of place to the Emperor, to seat her on his right hand like she was some kind of servant, and to relegate the Prime Minister to the Count’s left-hand seat, the position of one’s unmentionable alliance – that was _Hubert’s_ seat – it was supposed to be the four of them (five, counting Maribelle) around a round table, Hubert and Ferdinand bracketing the Emperor as she spoke to them all.

Instead they sat in the shadow of sin, loomed over by a man barely five feet tall.

The Count paid no heed to Bernadetta or Maribelle, who took seats opposite each other as Hubert took the awkward seat out, one side with three diners instead of two, thanks to the Count’s utter avarice in insisting upon sitting in pride of place, for all that was holy, why couldn’t he have just sat between Edelgard and Ferdinand on one side of the table and-

“What an honour it is to have Her Imperial Majesty herself at my humble table,” said the Count, not one second after Edelgard had sat down.

“There’s no need to debase yourself on my count, Lord Manfred,” said Edelgard, giving him a calm and guarded smile. “It is a most well-appointed estate you have.” She looked around with mild interest, nodding at the dramatic table, ebony shot through with silver.

“Do excuse the decor,” said the Count. “My wife’s taste, hardly suited to anyone of genuine substance.”

What seemed to be every servant in the Manor poured out of the side door to lay shallow dishes of lobster bisque before each of the diners. Hubert kept himself from smiling, forced himself not to pay too much attention to them, so that they could continue all crowding in to eavesdrop, as no doubt they would as soon as the door closed again.

“Please do accept our condolences on your wife’s passing,” said Ferdinand, who looked far too eager to rile up the old man, painting over it with a veneer of puppy-dog pity.

The Count’s brow twitched and Hubert suddenly regretted all the times he’d wished Ferdinand was there to solve his problems for him. Getting blood out of Edelgard’s Imperial finery was not as easy as its crimson colour might suggest.

“I’m well aware you hardly got along on a personal basis,” Ferdinand was continuing, blithely into a beartrap as ever. Whether he knew it was there or not, however, remained to be seen. “That much is… obvious. However, those of us who spent much of the war in Enbarr are aware of how incredible of a mind she had. I don’t think we could have won the war without her expertise – at the very least, we’d have suffered an unbearable weight of casualties.”

Across the table, Bernadetta was chugging from her water glass as though it were some kind of awkwardness panacea. Hubert did not miss how her eyes flicked to Johannes’ retreating form at the mention of casualties.

Ferdinand was, somehow, still carrying on.

“I do hope you’re adjusting well to needing to manage everything yourself,” he said. “I know I had some difficulties when I first ascended to my role.”

Count Varley clenched a fist, somehow popping each of his knuckles in turn, though his face remained utterly impassive. Ferdinand kept at him with that concerned look.

“I’m sure you did,” said the Count. He seemed to strain from the very effort of keeping his voice only mildly venomous. “But I was not content to let my lands fall to ruin when my wife abandoned her duties to go play chemist in Enbarr. The goals of the Empire are grand indeed, but some of us have to keep an eye on the _profits_.”

Fucking hell, Ferdinand was much better at that innocently stupid lordling act than Hubert was. He had the face for it.

“You have my most profuse apologies, Count Varley,” said Ferdinand, sounding genuinely surprised. “I had pitied your suffering your wife’s betrayal on a personal level, but I had no idea that you contributed to the running of the County during what we saw as her era.”

“I did a hell of a lot more than simply _contribute_ , Fer- Duke Aegir,” said Varley.

Hubert could feel Maribelle’s eyes lock onto the Count. Perhaps they could push him just a little further, get him to describe how, exactly, he ran Varley…

“Forgive me for forgetting your title, Prime Minister” the Count said quickly. “It still feels like only yesterday I was working alongside your father, and you were still tugging on his trousers.”

“Oh, I certainly don’t mind,” said Ferdinand. “I do remember so well how my father’s memory began to fail as he aged – I wouldn’t ever hold that against a member of the former court.”

The Count’s smile stretched like watered wine.

“You do so look just like him,” he said. “I can only hope you live up to his legacy – those are some rather large shoes to fill.”

Hubert found himself regretting being placed so far down from the Count. When the inevitable swordfight broke out, he’d have to cut across Maribelle in the hopes of getting a stab in, and she wouldn’t like that.

“Duke Aegir was chosen, as all my ministers were, for his merits, not the shoes any relatives may have left behind,” said the Emperor.

Hubert wondered if she had an axe buried somewhere within all those skirts. 

“Mere coincidence, then, that so many of them were the children of previous servants of the Empire, I suppose,” said the Count.

The sip he took seemed to Hubert to be far too smug for a man surrounded by so many pointed stares.

“The Prime Minister and I were actually discussing that,” Edelgard said, turning her gaze to include Hubert, Bernadetta and Maribelle. “With the education system structured as it is, on wealth, the lack of qualified commoners does not reflect a lack of capability, so much as it does a lack of opportunity.”

“An excellent point, Your Majesty,” said Hubert. “Certainly we should write to Dorothea in Brigid, see what light her experiences may shed on the matter.”

“Speaking of Brigid,” Bernadetta piped up after a shaky inhale, “We should ask how they teach-”

The Count’s fists clattered against the table and Bernadetta stopped. He opened his mouth and Hubert could _feel_ the misery radiating from his friend, the pure shame at the inevitable insults before people she held in such high esteem. But Edelgard spoke first.

“Of course, an excellent idea,” said Edelgard. “I must admit that my studies were long focused exclusively on Fódlan in preparation for my ascension – any connections we have to those beyond should definitely be capitalised on. Ferdinand, can I ask you to write to Lorenz, ask him how things are in Almyra?”

“Certainly,” Ferdinand replied. “Though I cannot guarantee that you’ll get a useful reply.”

He, Edelgard and Maribelle laughed together, and Hubert joined in out of instinct, but his eyes were still on Bernadetta, how awkwardly she shifted in her seat, the tension of a fear not yet realised. Edelgard had done nothing but postpone the inevitable, and Hubert didn’t quite know how to handle that.

“What do you think, Bernadetta?” Edelgard asked.

“Hm?” Bernie squeaked, head snapping to look at her like a mouse would look to an owl.

“You’ve certainly read widely, and I know how much you’d love to travel-”

The Count snorted, but Edelgard ignored him and pressed on, even as Bernadetta’s shoulders drew tighter together.

“-Is there anywhere else you’ve heard of that may have an educational system of merit?”

Bernadetta swallowed, though she had taken no sips of her bisque.

“Well, um…” She closed her eyes, and her father shifted in his seat. It seemed to be pure panic that expelled her next words, eyes snapping back open as she stared directly at Edelgard instead. “There has to be a reason why Morfis is so well known for its magic, right? Maybe they have some insights into Reason training, or a better system of communication, or… something.”

“Of course,” said Edelgard with a smile. The two kept their eyes locked. To Hubert, perhaps the only person in the world familiar with the true range of Edelgard’s emotion, it looked as though his Lady was trying to keep Bernadetta’s eyes from wandering back to her father, however she could. “It would certainly be an interesting trip to learn more, wouldn’t it?”

Bernadetta swallowed again, gave a shaky nod, and then, incredibly, managed to smile.

“I… yes,” she said. “There’s a lot of writings out there about Morfis, but they’re all so outlandish in so many different ways, they can’t all possibly be true at once. I mean, um, I think. I’d love to get the chance to sort the fact from fiction, someday. A-and I’m sure they’d be glad to receive you in, um, some kind of official capacity. I don’t think we’ve had any diplomatic ties to-” 

“That’s _enough_!”

The bark of the Count’s voice sent Hubert’s mind straight to the hunting kennels of Enbarr, though whether Varley sounded more like the trainer or the hound, he could not tell. Ferdinand and Edelgard leapt to their feet as one, hands on their sidearms, but the Count barely seemed to notice. His eyes were fixed on Bernadetta.

“After all this time, how have you still not learned?”

Bernadetta slipped from her chair at his words, staying low as she backed away from the table. It was exactly the sort of posture Hubert had learnt alongside her at Garreg Mach in ranged tactics classes. The sniper’s crouch, though Bernadetta’s hands were empty.

“I put up with you all week, I let you into my home-”

The Count was standing now, too, and while Hubert watched Ferdinand step forward – what could he even hope to do? – Edelgard remained still. He hoped she was calling his bluff. He hoped she still knew how to move herself.

“-But time after time-” the Count’s pointing finger jabbed like a conductor’s baton as he stalked toward his daughter “-you have _failed_ me. You won’t shut up, you get in my way, you drag the Goddess damned _Emperor_ down here-”

Hubert’s eyes flickered back to the aforementioned monarch and feels his heart turn to lead. He found himself also on his feet, bolstered into action by that look on his oldest friend’s face. He’d seen it so many times before. It blinks up at him every time he drags her from nightmares, every time he catches her staring at a rat, at a damp cellar floor, or at a small child with mousy brown hair. She was shutting down, but the Count was still moving, past Edelgard to advance on Bernadetta.

As always, Hubert’s instincts drove him to his Lady, to grasp her by the shoulders and beg her to return. He was a coward in how he closed his eyes, how he willed himself not to hear the shouts of the Count or Bernadetta’s rasping breaths. He could only hope she would forgive him for failing her, at this very last stretch.

“Don’t act like you haven’t planned this,” the Count snapped as Hubert’s hands found their place on Edelgard’s pauldrons. “You’re a pathetic snivelling creature all your life and then you presume to speak to Her Majesty?”

“Edelgard, please,” Hubert whispered. The Emperor blinked at him, unseeing.

There was the sound of the door, surprised noises from the guards waiting outside.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Hubert said to her. “But we need to move.”

“Why are they here?” the Count roared.

“Bernadetta needs you.”

Edelgard blinked again, took a huge shuddering breath, and Hubert could see that she could not dispel the memories. They lurked in the corners of her eyes, sent her stumbling blind, but she stumbled on nonetheless, pushing away from Hubert and wheeling around to fumble for the door, hand back on the short, ornamental sword there was no way she would be able to swing properly.

Hubert, as always, followed her. As they reached the door, saw Bernadetta hurrying through the corridor in something not quite a walk, not quite a jog, pursued by her father as though he were a dog on the hunt, he could have sworn the gasp that left his Emperor’s throat sounded like an apology.

And then Ferdinand was by their side again, fully present and radiant in battle as ever, his instincts to fight blessedly separate from his own traumas.

“Bernadetta!” he cried, and the sound seemed to bolster Edelgard further, pushing onwards, unafraid to run through these sterile marble halls as the Varleys approached the grand central staircase.

Had the Count been running or was Hubert just that slow?

“Arrest him!” He heard Ferdinand call to the guards stationed outside the dining room. And when they did not immediately spring forward, when the Count and Bernadetta and Hubert and the royal party were all surging toward the stairs but the guards were not, he added, “Quickly!”

But the Count was upon Bernadetta. She was only two steps up the grand staircase, within reach of his arms, and he was drawing back.

“Tell me!”

His voice sounded hollow to Hubert, far away and all too close at the same time.

“What have you been planning?”

The hand began to come down. Open palm. Edelgard racing toward them but still so far away.

Bernadetta knocked aside her father’s arm as though it were light as a feather.

“You do not speak to me,” she said.

Her voice trembled so terribly it seemed to Hubert that it would be stolen by a breeze even in the stillness of indoors, but he heard her all the same. It was not clear or confident, but it was her voice, and it was her words.

The Count took a step back, no doubt out of more confusion than anything else, and Bernadetta turned to climb the stairs. Hubert could not miss how her shoulders shook and she seemed to be panting, even as the guards finally brushed past Hubert, finally grabbed that man’s same arm. Goddess, the Count looked so small surrounded by the Imperial guard. It should have been obvious that a seasoned soldier could be able to buff aside his blows, and yet Hubert still couldn’t quite comprehend what he had seen.

“Count Manfred von Varley, you are under arrest for dereliction of duty and failure to uphold the responsibilities bestowed upon you by the Crown,” Maribelle was saying.

Wait, had they really done it?

It didn’t feel like a victory, not with Bernadetta stumbling up the stairs like that. Hubert could not even stay to listen to the Count snap at Maribelle, to hear his full charges and terms of arrest. How complicated could they be? Instead he raced up those stairs, Edelgard and Ferdinand by his side.

Bernadetta was at the top, clutching to the end of the banister like it was the railing of a ship in a storm, hunched over and breathing heavily.

Hubert hesitated, still – despite her insistence – horrified at the idea of touching her at her most vulnerable. But then she turned her head, sweat-matted purple hair parting to reveal a grin, breathless and exhausted, but a grin all the same.

“Sorry,” she said, but her voice was tinged with a smile. “I…”

“It’s quite alright,” said Ferdinand, moving forward, while Hubert and Edelgard hung back, hovering. “You’ve done so well.”

She laughed, a little disoriented sounding, as she took the arm he offered her, touch light, as if she wasn’t quite sure of her own limbs. She tried to stand, leaving the balustrade behind, but her knees quaked and she began to pitch forward. Though Ferdinand steadied her with his free hand on her stomach, Edelgard still cried out, raced forward and caught Bernadetta’s face in her hands.

Bernadetta smiled at her.

“Sorry,” she said, yet again.

“Bernadetta!” Edelgard cried, and it had to be too loud, that close to Bernadetta’s face. “Please.” Edelgard’s voice oscillated in the other direction, suddenly too quiet. “You have nothing to apologise for, and no one to apologise to. Not anymore.”

Bernadetta shook, something like a laugh escaping her. And then, all at once, it was a sob. And then another and another, loud and rough as unbidden tears began to stream down her face.

“I’m sorry!” she cried, and then buried her face in the crook of Edelgard’s neck, Ferdinand’s steadying hand coming up instead to stroke her back as Edelgard gripped her tight.

“You’re alright,” Edelgard whispered, arms steady around her waist. “You’ve made it out.” She breathed deep even as Bernadetta continued to sob. “You’ve made it out.”

Hubert closed his eyes, tried not to think of all the times he’d found himself whispering those same words to Edelgard as she fought to throw off a nightmare, a memory. He did not want to wonder if Bernadetta would ever truly make it out of these walls, just as he did not want to wonder if there was a future for Edelgard that was not plagued by the same shadows that had stalked her all this time. He just wanted, in the words of Bernadetta not twenty minutes ago, for this all to be over.

“Keep him in his quarters,” he heard Lady Maribelle say from the bottom of the stairs. “He shall be brought to trial as soon as we have found somewhere to use as a courthouse.”

“My Lady,” said Hubert, addressing the tight hug of Bernadetta and Edelgard as one, “They’ll be transporting the Count to his rooms shortly.”

“My quarters are just over here,” said Ferdinand, gesturing to the corner room he had been assigned. “Let’s get you out of the way.”

Ferdinand’s quarters had an ample sitting space, but were not separated into distinct sitting and bedrooms, with the large four-poster bed dominating the back half of the room. Ferdinand’s chaotic living habits had somehow already spread into the space, Hubert noticed, unable to avoid staring at the open and overflowing trunks stacked by the foot of the bed. It wasn’t as if there was anything better to look at – the room spare and impersonal, and Bernadetta still shaking, though she had detached herself from Edelgard and was no longer wailing. 

She sat on one end of a sofa, curled against the arm, and seemed to try a bunch of different movements, all which failed before she could do more than twitch her arm. Edelgard sat on the sofa beside her at a distance that was somehow at an exact awkwardness, too close and too far away all at once.

“I…” started Bernadetta, voice thick from her earlier tears, before she cut herself off with an annoyed little grumble. “I am sorry for apologising so much. Um, oh that was… also an apology I suppose.” She frowned at herself. “I just don’t know what else to say.”

Edelgard looked at her with beseeching eyes, but could not seem to find words of her own, either. Hubert and Ferdinand stayed standing, Ferdinand casting about as if to find answers, while Hubert folded his arms against himself, stance wide. Someone, he figured, had to be on guard.

“I feel like I’ve caused you all so much trouble,” Bernadetta continued. “And I _know-_ ” she squeaked when Edelgard took a breath to speak. “I know that I shouldn’t… _oogh-_ ” Her face contorted into a desperate twist of frustration, and before Hubert could think of something to say, she had sprung off the lounge, arms flying out by her sides as if she were a flower, blooming at the speed of light.

“I’m just so sick of it all!” she cried, and that neither sadness nor fear in her voice, it was anger. “I’m sick of being scared and I’m sick of looking for ‘victories’ in my life I just… I don’t even want it to be _over_ I just wish none of this had happened at all! A-and I’m not even done! It just keeps going like this, through the trial and then we have to figure out what to do about the County and I just want to go _home_ but I don’t even know what that means!”

Hubert stepped forward first, drew a cloak-covered arm around her as if to shield her from her own existence. But when she leant into it, drew it closer so that he was hugging her, Edelgard and Ferdinand followed suit. The three surrounded her, blocking out the world from all sides, as Bernadetta trembled for a few moments more.

“You can take a break,” Edelgard said, her head rested against Bernadetta’s shoulder not quite the same way it had rested against Hubert’s earlier. “We’ll finish the trial, and you can take a well-earned sabbatical before needing to assume your role as Countess-”

“No,” mumbled Bernadetta. And then, firmer, “No, I don’t want to. Take a break. Or… or maybe even be the Countess at all. I can’t stand aside and keep letting bad things happen, only to try and fix them later. I want to be good to begin with. I want to _do_ things.”

“Bernadetta,” said Ferdinand, drawing her tired eyes from the fold of Hubert’s cape at last. “Your commitment to your people is but one of your hundredfold qualities, and I know that you will be able to reach a future where both you and the folk of Varley are at last safe in your homes. But please do not forget – we are here to help you achieve that goal, in whatever way we can. Even if it is simply brewing you a cup of tea on a cold autumn night.”

“Thank you,” Bernadetta murmured.

“He’s right,” said Hubert, surprised to find that there was a smile on his face. Damned Ferdinand. “Please, tell us what you need.”

Bernadetta took a deep breath, extracting herself from her friends so that the four of them were not so tightly jammed together. Hubert found himself and Ferdinand automatically standing at attention, retainers ready to receive instruction. Edelgard was less at ease, staring at Bernadetta as if she was afraid the turmoil had only just begun.

“I don’t want to live here,” Bernadetta announced. Hubert saw his own surprise mirrored on Edelgard’s face. He had been expecting her to say any manner of things, but this was not one of them.

“Perfectly understandable,” said Ferdinand. “These halls cannot be a very comforting weight.”

Bernadetta made some sad, agreeing hum, clearly still thinking about how to formulate her next sentence.

“Do you… want to live in Varley at all?” Edelgard asked.

“That’s just it,” said Bernadetta, quiet. “I don’t know. I don’t… like it here, but it is my home. I see the plains in my dreams, I like to be near Mortiz… his tree. But I want to live in Enbarr! With- with my friends.” She flushed, looking quickly from Edelgard to Ferdinand and Hubert. “And yet, I can’t shake something Erna – one of the village girls – said to me. If there’s no noble in Varley, how can we ensure that the people are not abandoned? N-not that I think you’d ever ignore someone like that,” she quickly clarified. “But would they know who to report problems like crop shortages to? Who would even be in charge of reporting? If they needed a Magistrate – hm, well, maybe I can ask Lady Maribelle to make herself known to the people…”

“A valid concern,” said Ferdinand. “Despite our best intentions, I have to say, I can see problems identified by ourselves overshadowing concerns from commoners who may not know the correct jargon or whom to contact. We discussed the importance of equality of education earlier, but…”

“Do we have time to educate someone to be a kind of… common Count?” Bernadetta asked, looking to Edelgard as if she could somehow know the answer to that. “A-and, how would we even decide who would take on that responsibility? It would be such a hefty task, and, you know, this isn’t Bergliez, we don’t have a middle class full of people who have their own businesses and valets and experience in formal communication…”

“Hm,” said Edelgard, a thinking finger on her chin. The three of them turned to look at her, awaiting the Emperor’s verdict. “Was the Count even doing any of that for them to begin with?”

Bernadetta blinked, and Hubert tried to think. Certainly all the financial ledgers seemed to include nothing but profits from the Count’s ventures – Varley or beyond – but they were missing expenses anyway, so there was no reason for petitions to the Crown to be included… Would he have recorded grants, supplements, in times of crisis? On one hand, his greed seemed to delight in any filling of his coffers, regardless of the source, but, on the other, recording them would raise the obligation of having to track where they were spent, and there was no way any money intended for miners’ orphans actually went anywhere near them.

“We didn’t… find anything,” Bernadetta said, looking at him to confirm they were following the same train of thought. He nodded. “Technically, that doesn’t prove he _didn’t_ , but-”

“In any case, he didn’t petition _properly_ to the Crown, then,” said Ferdinand, tossing back his hair. “Correct procedure requires a filing of all requests made on behalf of local jurisdiction to be stored within both upper and lower governments involved, in order to prevent falsified documentation. Knowing Count Manfred, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he tried the old “file small claim with the Crown, large claim with yourself” trick to try and sue the Emperor for outstanding funds once the claim gets approved, but no filing whatsoever seems to imply no claims, which means no representation of the people.”

“Remember to tell that to Maribelle, before the trial, and during, as well,” said Edelgard. “That’s important. But regarding _future_ government, perhaps our first step now should be to ask the people what they did in times of crisis during the Count’s reign. If they weren’t being helped by him, perhaps they were helping each other. At the very least, we might get some insight into who is suited to leadership or desires to learn more.”

Everyone looked to Bernadetta, waiting for her opinion. 

“Ah… sure!” she said. “It’s always a good idea to look for more information.”

“Well said,” said Hubert, feeling himself relax slightly. “And a most excellent idea, Lady Edelgard. I shall instruct my agents to start asking questions immediately.”

“Not this instant,” Edelgard chided. “It would be nice if _some_ of the Manor’s guests could enjoy an uninterrupted supper.”

Bernadetta deflated slightly, and Hubert leapt to keep her mind from lingering too long on the disastrous meal.

“Are you hungry, My Lady?” he asked. “You have had quite a strenuous day-”

“I’m trying to be _nice_ , Hubert, that’s all,” said Edelgard, her posture relaxing slightly as the tension in the room at last started to fade.

Ferdinand shook his head with a laugh.

“You must quit hovering so terribly, Hubert,” he said.

Hubert quirked an eyebrow, turning to his partner.

“Excuse me?” he asked. “I am the one that hovers? Tell me Prime Minister, why is it that you are not currently in Enbarr, where your duty awaits? It certainly wasn’t because anyone summoned you.”

Ferdinand squawked in outrage.

“My duty lies wherever the people of Fódlan are in need! What would you have me do? Wait for your summons while you continued to face opposition here in the enemy’s own domain?

“As hard as it may be for you to believe, facing opposition is something of a requirement for the spy or the soldier,” Hubert replied, stepping closer.

“So is _regrouping_ ,” snapped Ferdinand.

“At a tactically ideal time, yes,” Hubert replied, some of the manic energy that always came with arguing with Ferdinand leeching back into his bones. He had missed it worse than the feel of his own bed, the smell of his morning coffee.

“And how were we supposed to know when the tactically ideal time was?” Ferdinand asked, casting about as if looking for an answer somewhere in his room. “We were three whole days away-”

“A fact which I took into account when planning my reports-”

“You cannot _plan_ being caught off guard,” Ferdinand snapped. “What if something had happened-”

“Well, it didn’t,” Hubert replied. Out the corner of his eyes he could see Bernadetta nudge the Emperor slightly, as Edelgard lifted a hand to stifle some expression.

“Only because we got here in time,” Ferdinand retorted.

“Do you _really_ think things would have fallen to pieces had we stayed here one instant more-”

“The point is not that they were guaranteed to,” Ferdinand said, emphasising every single word, “but that they _could_ -”

“You know, unlike you, I can actually do my job-”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware that your job description included juggling the whims of wretched old men.”

There was the sound of the door, and Hubert managed to tear his attention from Ferdinand for a second long enough to realise that Edelgard and Bernadetta had slipped out, laughter lingering in their wake.

He returned his focus to Ferdinand, but suddenly could not remember what the next step in the dance should be, where he was expected to jab or defend. Ferdinand looked exhausted, his hair limp and eyes deep in their sockets, his housecoat still wrinkled from where it had no doubt been stuffed into a trunk and hauled across the country, and yet he was still Ferdinand. Still blustering furious, hands on hips like he was chiding one of his horses.

“What’s with that ridiculous smile?” he asked, softening slightly himself.

Was Hubert smiling? He never did have much control over his positive expressions. Lack of experience, and all that.

“I missed you,” he said.

Ferdinand swept up to him like a raging fire, engulfing Hubert in a great wave of horse-scent and heavy wool. Two hands grasped Hubert’s cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss that wasn’t so much deep and passionate as it was messy and desperate, all sense of place and direction yanked from beneath Hubert as the madness of the embrace overtook him. He felt as though he was melting, the structural integrity of his body giving way completely to the press of Ferdinand against him, the hand sweeping up and into his hair, the arm coming down to circle so tight around his waist it wouldn’t matter if he fell, after all. Hubert’s legs grew weak, and yet he stayed upright, pulled so tight and firm against the Prime Minister that he hung like a marionette. Utterly blank, his mind was just as detached from the world as his feet were.

“I am _so_ glad you two are safe,” Ferdinand breathed, hot against Hubert’s lips.

“You took the words right from my mouth,” Hubert murmured, staring at where Ferdinand’s teeth gnawed on his lower lip.

“Hubert, do not be so ridiculous, Edelgard and I were never in any danger.”

Hubert blinked, having already forgotten what he’d said. He tried to think of what he had to do next – there was always something to be done next – but his eyes kept slipping back to Ferdinand’s lips, his mind to the feel of his strong fingers against his spine.

“You look rather tired, my dear,” said Ferdinand, gentle, but with the bite of his tease still lingering in his voice.

“I am,” said Hubert, though he still couldn’t quite reach that feeling, the exhaustion he knew was wearing away at his body. His mind was too busy searching for something, the next step that he had to take, the next route to cut off so that the Count would not be able to catch him unawares, so that Bernadetta was safe.

His head lolled forward with the weight of it all, coming to rest in the curve of Ferdinand’s neck, cushioned by sweaty hair that got in his mouth and eyes and bothered sneezes out of him. He loved it more than he knew how to say. Ferdinand stroked the back of his head, fingernails scraping so delightfully against his scalp as his grip around his back relaxed slightly. But leave it to the fool to sway lightly in place, as though he were rocking an infant to sleep.

“What are you doing?” Hubert asked, words muffled by the enormity of Ferdinand.

“I am enjoying your presence,” Ferdinand replied, still so ridiculously chipper, so full of light and energy. “I should like to enjoy it in a more vigorous fashion, too, but I think perhaps you need to rest.”

“I am not _that_ tired,” Hubert replied immediately, and Ferdinand laughed, loud and clear.

“Hmm, I doubt you ever are,” he murmured, giving Hubert a light pinch. “But I worry about you, my dear.”

“And I worry about everything in the world,” Hubert muttered in reply, pulling back. “Please, forgive me, for not giving you the attention you deserve.”

“You have given me more than my fair share of attention,” Ferdinand replied, “Though you must know by now that I will continue to demand more. I simply wish there was a way to ease that overactive mind of yours.”

“My mind will not be quelled until I have that bastard taken care of for good, and Bernadetta safe back in Enbarr, and the people of Varley well cared for, and-”

“Yes, dear,” said Ferdinand. “I am well aware. But I feel the need to remind you that all those problems will still be there for you in the morning. Is there really anything you will be able to accomplish by forcing yourself to stay awake and fretting all that time?”

Hubert huffed. “There may be… some logic to such a view,” he replied, and Ferdinand chuckled, giving him a ridiculously chaste kiss to the cheek that nonetheless set Hubert aflame. “But shutting off my brain is not so simple as all that.”

“That I understand well,” Ferdinand replied with a smile that seemed to be far too pleased with itself. “May I have your permission to attempt to knock all thoughts out of you?”

Hubert blinked and then, at a loss at how else to respond, laughed, a genuine flutter of hope bright in his stomach.

“Alright, then,” he said, pulling back from his spot against Ferdinand’s neck. “You may _try_ , but-”

Ferdinand’s arms wrapped tight around Hubert’s thighs and yanked him from the ground as promptly and boldly as if he were a crate of arrows. Hubert’s breath burst out of him in a funny little gasp as Ferdinand began to practically charge forward, mage’s scarred hands scrabbling at the Prime Minister’s finery before he was dropped – no, _thrown_ , bodily and brutally onto the bed that lurked at the end of the room. Hubert’s vision blurred as he bounced, but though his awareness of the world was quickly falling away before a hunger that raged like a storm, the sight of Ferdinand bearing down on him was one that would not fade, even as he closed his eyes to the fervent press of lips against his own.

Maybe a temporary respite wouldn’t be so impossible.

* * *

Bernadetta couldn’t stifle her laugh as she slipped out of Ferdinand’s room, knocking shoulders with Edelgard. The Emperor seemed only slightly more composed herself, a fist to a smirking mouth as her shoulders shook and her headpiece rattled from shaking her head.

“Hubert told me,” Bernadetta clarified quickly, “So you don’t have to pretend they were being subtle.”

Edelgard’s laugh was warm and soft, and seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised Bernadetta, the Emperor quickly turning aside with a cough.

“I shouldn’t be so mean to them,” she said, flattening her mouth, though Bernadetta could see a smile straining against it. “It must be hard to keep such a secret.”

“R-right,” said Bernadetta, looking away as though the bare hall tables were of great interest.

“Though I do wonder why they bother,” Edelgard continued, and Bernadetta chanced looking back at her. Her expression was fond now, unguardedly so. “I cannot imagine anyone having any objection to such a pair. And if some fool ever did, well…”

“They can certainly take care of themselves,” Bernadetta said with a smile.

“Precisely,” Edelgard replied.

The two of them hung for a moment, in a silence not quite awkward, but still tinged with a faint tension Bernadetta could not name. It gnawed at the fragile fibres of her mind, but she did not want to be the one to break, to duck her head and say “a-anyway” and run off to her room. But eye contact was never something she had been able to stomach, and she found her eyes wandering, down to the other end of the corridor where her father’s room awaited. Imperial Guards were stationed outside it now, Maribelle talking to them with Johannes standing by, and Bernadetta felt her gut clench. Goddess, there was still so much more to be done, even before the trial, where she would have to stand and deliver.

“My room is only a few doors down, if you do not feel like being alone just yet,” Edelgard said, quiet.

Bernadetta’s head snapped back around to face her so fast that her neck cracked, a blush beginning to crawl up it at the same time.

“Of course, I completely understand if you’d rather just go to bed,” Edelgard amended quickly. “You must be exhausted after everything-”

“No, I…” Bernadetta squeaked, and then cleared her throat. “I’ve… missed you?” Her blush burned brighter. “It’d be good to catch up, or something.”

Edelgard smiled, genuine, but not quite easy, as though her expression were a heavy weight. Bernadetta couldn’t quite grasp it, even as Edelgard nodded and turned, the two of them walking to her door.

“I’ve missed you, too,” said the Emperor, eyes flickering to Bernadetta and then away just as quickly. “Though I must admit, much of that was misplaced worry.”

“Well,” Bernadetta chuckled awkwardly, “I don’t really blame you for that, considering what I was like when you first met me. I think you saw me at my absolute worst.”

“Maybe so,” said Edelgard, “But if there’s one thing you deserve, it’s not to be reduced to your lowest state. I trust you, Bernadetta.”

She stopped before her door, and Bernie suddenly found herself unable to breathe.

“And looking back now, I should have trusted you then, too.” Edelgard turned to the door, hand hovering over the doorknob. “I think, perhaps, you met me at my worst, too.”

Bernadetta didn’t know what to do with herself as Edelgard pushed open the door on such a solemn note, but she followed nonetheless, heart beating and fingers fumbling with themselves.

“I trust you, too,” Bernadetta blurted as she closed the door behind herself, unsure if she should look at Edelgard, now sitting before her vanity. “I mean, you know that, I swore fealty to you and everything, but I mean I trust you with smaller things, too. Personal stuff.”

Edelgard smiled wryly as she met Bernadetta’s eyes in the mirror.

“Sometimes I feel as though personal matters are the largest problems of all. When vexed by a treaty dispute I can close my eyes and step away from the bargaining table to gain some perspective, but when I feel… well,” she smiled to herself, shaking her head, “When I feel _anything_ , it lives inside me. There is no escape.”

“Yeah…” said Bernadetta, as she came to sit on a chair near the vanity. “It’s… scary, huh?”

The two were quiet for a second, Edelgard looking in the mirror and Bernadetta at her own hands.

“Maybe that’s why you’re frightened of the ocean,” Bernadetta said abruptly.

Edelgard turned to her.

“How do you figure?”

“Well… your feelings, the, um, ‘the self’ is kind of like an ocean.” She was already regretting saying this, having started with no idea of where she would end. “It’s tumultuous and unpredictable, but it’s big. It’s so big. When you’re in it, properly – and when you’re in yourself – you can’t see outside it. Whether you’re underwater or above, there’s no land in sight. You just have to kind of trust that it’s there, the same way that you have to trust in other people, trust that other people _exist_ the same way that you do at all.”

“Hm,” said Edelgard.

Bernadetta wasn’t sure if she was furious or just thinking. She dug her nails into her palm to will herself from falling into one assumption or the other. She had to trust Edelgard, the way a captain would her maps.

“What a fascinating way of putting it,” Edelgard said.

Bernadetta felt her heart soar, but it wasn’t just the compliment that launched it. She had trusted someone, held herself back from apologising, put her thoughts in Edelgards hands and had them treasured just as she had hoped. Was this delight what everyone felt when they didn’t hide themselves away? Dear Goddess, no wonder people lived so vividly, burned so brightly. Bernadetta felt as though she could set fire to the sun.

“Though I should expect nothing less from an artist.”

Edelgard’s wry smile returned, and Bernadetta had the sense that she was being made fun of – but not quite. There was a teasing in that statement, but the joke wasn’t on her. Was it on Edelgard? On the conversation they were having? Or was the joke on the tension that was slowly building, unspoken, and yet, somehow, not unwelcome?

“I can do better if you give me an editor’s pen and five hours of overthinking,” Bernadetta replied, still high on the joy of conversation.

Edelgard’s chuckle was cute, small, in the way Bernadetta so often forgot that her Emperor was.

“I wouldn’t want you to waste your time on that,” Edelgard said.

 _I would_ , Bernadetta thought.

“But perhaps you can tell me this,” the Emperor continued, “If I fear the ocean because it reminds me of the tumult of the self, why fear the ocean at all, and not just keep my worries constrained to my inner life?”

“It’s not that easy,” Bernadetta said, surprising herself with how quickly she replied.

“It is a rather complex question-”

“I meant being afraid,” said Bernadetta, and Edelgard seemed to pause, her whole body hanging as if waiting for a drop. “It’s… hard. Trust me, I’ve practiced a lot.”

Bernadetta gave a little laugh, but Edelgard was still looking at her, expectant, curious. As though she were genuinely learning. Bernadetta cleared her throat.

“When you feel afraid, your body, your brain, doesn’t tell you _why_ , at least, not clearly. You just… feel scared. And you can usually figure out why pretty easily – there’s a snake or a big speech or an angry person or something – but for the abstract stuff, it takes a while. I used to get so frustrated when I would get scared of people because I _knew_ there wasn’t actually anything to be scared of, not usually. It took me years to figure out I was scared of everyone because for so long my only contact was with my father or with people who were also afraid of him, so I associated any people with him, and so… I got scared. I’m not saying that the only reason you’re scared of the ocean is because of inside stuff – it’s a pretty reasonable fear, sailors get hurt or killed or drowned all the time – but… maybe some of your fear of the inside stuff leaks out into other things. Like the ocean.”

Edelgard was quiet.

“Perhaps it has leaked into yet more aspects of my life, too,” she murmured.

“I think… yeah, probably?” Bernadetta offered. “You have… a lot to deal with. It’s too big to all stay inside.”

Edelgard met her eyes, and Bernadetta’s breath caught at the voracity of her gaze. It felt as though a life-ring had been looped around her waist and she was being hauled ashore by a team of oxen, stronger than a hundred men.

“The sea is quite lonely, too,” said Edelgard after a moment.

Bernadetta felt as though she would swallow her own tongue.

“Loneliness is another fear that makes sense,” she managed to say. “You can’t live on your own, not completely. Even your air comes from trees. I think. I heard that from Linhardt so I don’t know if it’s groundbreaking new research or some stuff he made up.” She shook her head, earrings rattling the way Edelgard’s headdress had before. “But, um, it’s okay to be afraid of being lonely. I am, all the time, even when I make myself lonely on purpose. But, um, I’ve been trying not to, lately. And… if it helps, I don’t want you to feel like you have to be lonely when I’m around. You can always come see me. Even if you don’t want to talk, we can just. Sit near each other. Like this.”

Bernadetta wanted to reach out, put her hand on Edelgard’s wrist, more than she had wanted anything in her life. She wanted to feel Edelgard’s pulse beneath her fingers, watch her breathing grow quick and then slow as she relaxed, closed her eyes, and-

“Thank you,” Edelgard murmured, and suddenly it was her who didn’t know where to look. “I…” she started, and then faltered, looking away so that Bernadetta could only see the back of her head.

Wisps of her hair had begun to fly from her elaborate hairstyle, slipping down her back to stand stark against her crimson cape.

“I… need to get this damned headdress off, it itches like all the hells,” Edelgard muttered, and Bernadetta gave her a little laugh to try and diffuse the tension that was wound so tight within her Emperor it looked as though she would explode.

“Do you-” Bernadetta swallowed “-need any help?”

“Only if you don’t mind,” Edelgard said with a sigh, turning to face the mirror properly, and reaching for the first of many hairpins. “It’s not as hard to disassemble as it is to put together in the first place, but it still seems like a job for a full battalion.”

Bernadetta gave another appeasing laugh as she stood, stepped behind Edelgard, and then froze.

Was she really going to touch the Emperor like this? Touch another woman at all?

Her fingers found a heavy pin at the base of Edelgard’s right hair coil, and, not giving herself time to think, Bernadetta pulled it free. Edelgard sighed with relief, hand coming up to shake the hair loose, as a blush washed right through Bernadetta’s body at the sound.

“I swear, after a few hours tied up, it seems as though I can feel the hair itself being bent out of shape,” Edelgard said, yanking out the pins still tangled in now-loose hair.

“It must have been a lot of effort, getting it to look like this when you were still on the road,” Bernadetta said, trying to figure out what the horns were connected to and how to pull them off. “I, um, hope you didn’t go to too much trouble on my behalf.”

“Why shouldn’t I trouble myself for you?” Edelgard replied in an instant, catching Bernadetta’s gaze in the mirror. “It would be horribly cruel to live my life as emphatically as I do, and not save any of that energy for you.”

“I don’t want your _energy_ ,” Bernadetta mumbled before she could stop herself, “I just want you to be happy.”

Edelgard’s fingertips brushed hers as she reached up, fiddled with some claw-toothed clasps and pulled the whole headdress, horns and all, from her head. But all the while she kept her eyes on Bernadetta’s in the mirror, a softness startled into her mauve irises that Bernie simply ached at the sight of.

“It makes me happy to spend my energy on you,” the Emperor said.

Bernadetta slid an anchoring pin on the left coil free, and her Emperor smiled at the sensation.

“I suppose now’s where we go in circles,” Bernadetta said, a weak smile plastered onto her words like an afterthought. “I tell you that you need to relax and you say that doing nothing would make you more antsy, and I’d be unable to comprehend that you enjoy being nice to me, and you’d be worried that I was trying to hide from kindness again.”

Edelgard combed out her hair in silence, eyes lowered in thought. And then suddenly the pins were gone, and her hair was loose in two simple tails, so closely resembling the way she had looked at Garreg Mach. She still looked so young, for a moment it shocked Bernadetta. She had been so hungry for progress – they both had, especially recently – that she had almost forgotten that they were only twenty-three. The world wasn’t yet due to collapse around them, or fall from beneath their feet.

Bernadetta had never really expected to last this long. The idea of living even longer, for decades upon decades, she couldn’t pretend it didn’t frighten her. But some of the frantic energy buzzing in her chest was more than just fear. There was excitement there, too, and hope.

Goddess, it was terrifying.

“May I trouble you further?”

“Of course,” Bernadetta replied.

“I fear it’s not only my headdress that requires many hands to remove,” said Edelgard. “Somewhere underneath all this regalia, I’m wearing a simple riding suit, and I’d appreciate your help on getting all the nonsense caked atop it off me.”

Bernadetta’s mind went blank.

She was just asking for help with her ostentatious ornamentation, that was all. No different to helping her with the headdress, never mind that that alone was enough to send shivers down Bernadetta’s spine. There was no reason for her to say no.

There was also no reason for her to read more into it, but she had already begun to do so.

“Y-yeah!”

Wasn’t as though she would ever get a chance like this. Certainly not one instigated by _Edelgard_.

“Thank you,” her Emperor said, standing from the vanity.

Bernadetta’s hands balled into fists. She couldn’t let herself steer this conversation, this moment – whatever it was – into the weeds. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t _mean_ anything, except to Bernadetta, to whom it meant the world.

Edelgard murmured yet more thanks as Bernadetta fumbled with the clasps of her cloak, releasing it from where it gripped the shoulders of her gown. It seemed a wonder to see her own hands against someone else, four layers from the skin and still burning with the intensity of a living person, someone who chose to be close to Bernadetta.

Edelgard lifted a leg, got to work on her greaves ( _greaves? She had been wearing armour this whole time?_ ) and Bernadetta suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of her hands set free. That could well have been the last time she would ever touch Edelgard, circumstance and duty keeping them from anything but mild conversation until, eventually, they drifted apart. Bernadetta had never had someone leave her life without being ripped from it, violently. It almost seemed worse, to imagine the fervent feelings within her breast fading to nothing, as though they had never existed.

She had to do something.

“Can I-” she breathed, only to be cut off by a grunt of effort as Edelgard wrenched off her armour plating.

“Sorry,” said the Emperor. “Honestly, the greaves are the easiest part. Utility in battle and all that.”

“Right,” said Bernadetta, who was the definition of a light armour unit.

And then Edelgard angled her head so that her face was invisible, her voice as closed as if she were speaking in parliament.

“Can I trouble you to get the buttons on my back?”

“Of course!” Bernadetta squeaked.

She hadn’t really worn dresses like that herself, the ones with the great lines of buttons up the back. Those were high society dresses, for girls over twelve who attended balls and high tea and the meetings of whatever assembly their fathers were in. Bernadetta had never gotten to have that experience, and so she found herself wearing dresses several decades out of style, or men’s clothes, or riding gear indoors or anything that you didn’t need a servant to strap you into. Of course the Emperor would be her opposite.

The thought made Bernie abruptly rather lonely.

But when she turned to Edelgard’s back, forcing herself to actually look at her friend’s body below the shoulders, she did not find a column of tiny buttons. Instead there were three buttons at the nape of her neck before they stopped at her shoulder-blades, resuming at her mid back down over her tail bone. In the resulting gap there was no crimson fabric, the Emperor’s white undershirt instead peeking through a cut out in the shape of a heart.

Bernadetta stared.

Slowly she brought a heavy finger up to the bow of the heart and, keeping her touch as close to the fabric as she could without making contact, slowly traced the shape of the heart.

Edelgard’s shoulders tensed. Bernadetta snapped her hands back to her chest, but then came the sound of a buckle and the Emperor relaxed as she freed her other shin from her greaves. Bernadetta exhaled. And then, before she woke from what was surely a dream, she returned her hands to Edelgard’s back.

There was no sound as she slipped the first button from its loop. Edelgard straightened as she returned her leg to the floor and still Bernadetta kept her hands close. The second button was a little stiff. Edelgard began to pull off her gloves – unarmoured, presumably if only for the dexterity she would have needed to hold cutlery, had their meal actually proceeded as it should have. Bernadetta watched the stretch of her shoulders with each movement as she undid the final button keeping Edelgard’s collar closed.

There was something horribly intimate in watching the Emperor’s gown slide down her arms in her next movement, the heart yawning wide as though split open.

Edelgard was brusque about it, pulling at the gown’s sleeves as though they chafed at her. Goddess her arms were strong. It wasn’t as if she ever hid her strength or anything, it was just… different. To be so close as to hear her every movement, to see the contour of her muscles beneath her shirt.

Bernadetta wanted to touch her so bad it felt as though she were drowning.

Her hands went dutifully to the next set of buttons, hands hovering so that they barely touched the buttons, so afraid was she of overstepping. Her fingers were going clumsy, tripping over themselves as she finally got the next button undone. She wanted Edelgard to grab her hands, say “That’s enough,” and then maybe all this would go somewhere. But on the other hand, she never wanted this line of buttons to end. Her breath caught as she approached the swell of Edelgard’s hips, and even knowing that the shape was only from the crinoline that lay beneath didn’t allay her urgent heart.

“Thanks,” Edelgard said, the instant she finished with the final button.

Had she been looking over her shoulder at Bernadetta? Had she seen the way her eyes had followed Edelgard’s muscles, the way she bit her lip to keep all these thoughts bottled up, no matter how they strained at the seams?

Edelgard turned her back to Bernadetta again, picked up the hem of the gown and yanked the whole thing over her head in one smooth movement.

Bernadetta’s fingers itched to help with the hoop skirt beneath – and great Seiros how that very concept made shame fill her stomach – but its design was quite unlike anything she’d seen in her limited experience. Hoop skirts hadn’t even really been the style of her generation, something more suited to historical dramas and, of course, ceremonial wear, but she knew that they didn’t usually look like this: the cage surrounding only the back and sides while the front was open.

She didn’t have too long to try and investigate it though, for Edelgard was quickly undoing the crinoline’s belt, and casting the whole sweeping garment aside to rest against her travelling trunk, where she’d discarded her gown and cape. Yet still, Edelgard kept her back to Bernadetta. Her riding gear must have been lovely, Bernadetta was sure, with her black suede jodhpurs and traces of embroidery crawling along her white shirt. But, instead, Bernadetta was focused only on her shoulders, tense, bunched up as if readying for a blow, with her Imperial head cast down.

Bernadetta stepped forward, and then back again, an aborted waltz of concern.

“Edelgard?” she asked, quiet.

Edelgard sighed, but she didn’t sound annoyed. She sounded tired, almost hesitant, and Bernadetta feared something had gone truly wrong, until Edelgard turned to face her again, at last. 

Her Emperor’s eyes were closed off, hiding, as they so often seemed to. And yet the amount of emotion that leaked from their corners, in the quick flickers between Bernadetta’s eyes and mouth and nowhere, in the furrow of her brow, it seemed too big for either of them, for the entire room. Edelgard was frightened, but not completely. Not fully. There was something more to her state, something raw and unused, as unfamiliar to Edelgard as it was to Bernadetta. And underpinning it all, as naked as a newborn, was desperation, as strong as the wildest seas.

Bernadetta couldn’t do it.

Bernadetta _had_ to do it.

“Now, um, could it be my turn, to ask something of you?” Bernadetta asked, fingers trembling by her sides.

“But of course, I’ve bothered you long enough,” said Edelgard, shaking her head as though ashamed of herself. “What is it?”

“I ask that you forgive me.”

The Emperor’s brow creased, laden with sorrow, but Bernadetta’s eyes were already slipping shut.

She didn’t give Edelgard the chance to ask why, to pre-empt an apology that wouldn’t be coming. She simply stepped forward, tilted her head down and to the left, and let her lips brush against Edelgard’s.

A great wide something was opening up within her. It tasted like sorrow, the knowledge that this would be the only time she ever did this, that Edelgard would not reciprocate and that their relationship would be forever altered. But it tasted like triumph, too – the knowledge that she had done it, made her move, followed her heart. More than anything else, though, she felt hungry. She pulled her face back from Edelgard’s almost as soon as she made contact, and yet she burned to stay close, to move closer still, to open her mouth and receive something that wasn’t even being offered to her. She wanted to know Edelgard, feel her body against her own, and this barest touch felt like a slice of bread before dinner, serving only to remind her of how starving she was.

But she hadn’t even opened her eyes again before she heard Edelgard speak.

“Bernie,” she whispered, small, surprised, utterly in awe.

Bernadetta didn’t want to hear how impressed Edelgard was that she had made such a move, she didn’t want well-meaning platitudes about how far she’d come. She wanted rejection, clear and simple, and for things to move on.

“ _Bernie_.”

Goddess, her name sounded beautiful on Edelgard’s lips. She’d never be able to hear it the same again.

But the moment was over, and Bernadetta had to open her eyes.

“I… we don’t have to talk about this, if you feel, um, like…” She trailed off.

She hadn’t expected Edelgard to be looking at her like that, as though she’d just handed the Emperor a newborn kitten or a plan for eternal peace. Her lips were parted, and she was blinking, looking as gormless as the Fool in an opera.

“I…” Edelgard began, and a tiny smile grew, opening her expression like an oyster to reveal a pearl. Bernadetta had never seen such hope in those light eyes, so similar to her own.

Edelgard stepped forward, though she lifted a hand to cover the growing smile.

“What did you mean by that?” she asked Bernadetta, and it wasn’t an interrogation, or even a flirtation. It was a question, naked in its desperation for the truth.

“What did you mean by that smile?” Bernadetta found herself saying in reply, voice catching on a suddenly too-tight throat.

“Bernadetta.” She’d been right, her name now belonged to Edelgard forever. “I know you’re not one to leave a task half-completed.”

Bernie thought of all the abandoned cross-stiches scattered around her rooms, the opening lines to stories that never came and the sketches she’d never gotten around to cleaning the way she wanted. But evidence was nothing against Edelgard’s request.

“I have feelings for you.”

The words came easier than she had expected, though she had to close her eyes. Not screwed shut, at least.

There was no response.

She cracked one eye open, to see Edelgard standing just as dumbfounded as before. Bernadetta’s brow creased. Had she… not been expecting that? What else could a kiss have meant?

“Do you… mean it?”

The tension rushed from Bernadetta like a river – it was a wonder she didn’t fall to her knees. She’d heard that tone before, felt it on her own tongue more times than she could count.

Edelgard. Had she truly felt it to be so impossible that someone could care for her, find her beautiful, want to feel her close? Though… a life upon the throne, arm’s length from any threat, could not be conducive to intimacy. Perhaps it was even as alienating as a life behind closed doors, at least in some ways.

Bernadetta smiled, felt her hand twitch forward for Edelgard’s, finding a tightly balled fist.

“Of course I mean it,” she said. “You care about me, you- you _show_ that care in a way I’ve never really known before. You don’t just think of me as the shut-in girl, you get excited when I grow and change and you seem so delighted when I surprise you. You’re not just a good leader, you’re a good person – you care _so_ much about everyone’s safety, even though it’s hard for you to show it. You… you have a really funny sense of humour, too, if I can say that. A-and, of course, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve… ever really seen, ever,” she finished awkwardly.

Edelgard’s hand shook, the fist unfurling as wide blunt fingers brushed against Bernadetta’s, lacing between them in white-hot contact.

“No one’s ever kissed me before,” said the Emperor, stunning Bernie into silence.

“Well, um, I’ve never kissed anyone before,” said Bernadetta after a heavy swallow.

“Looks like we’re in this together, then,” murmured Edelgard, stepping closer.

Her free hand came up to cradle the back of Bernadetta’s head, and this time she closed her eyes, Bernadetta didn’t feel tired, or embarrassed, or afraid. It was like the relaxation of muscles before sleep, the way her eyelids shuttered as she leant in, forehead bumping Edelgard’s. Their lips were hesitant, barely touching as they met for a second time and yet Bernadetta couldn’t contain the excitement that filled her, sent her squeezing Edelgard’s hand and reaching up to rest her free hand against Edelgard’s shoulder. She pressed closer, desperate for more and found herself with Edelgard’s bottom lip caught between the urgent press of her lips.

By the Goddess, all the imagining in the world was nothing like the softness of he Emperor’s lips, so full and hungry beneath her own.

Edelgard pulled back with a gasp, but before the sudden fear in Bernadetta’s heart could make it to her head, her Emperor laughed and squeezed her fingers.

“Forgot to breathe,” she said, ducking her head to hide the sudden and virulent blush across her cheeks.

A matching laugh tumbled out of Bernadetta as she marvelled at the idea of anyone – of _Edelgard von Hresvelg_ – kissing her so intently her lungs strained. With no idea of what she was doing beyond the burning need to be close and closer, Bernadetta gathered Edelgard in her arms, pulled her tight and felt that flushing face find a home in the crook of her neck. A few more giggles escaped before they were cut off by the sudden loss of all thought and breath alike when Edelgard’s mouth found a place against Bernadetta’s skin.

“Too much?”

Her breath tickled against the gentle spot of wetness against Bernadetta’s pulse point and a shiver trickled down her spine.

“N-no,” she breathed, a familiar stutter now coming from a very new sensation. “I… You could do anything to me.”

And she couldn’t even be embarrassed by that, not when Edelgard’s arms squeezed tighter around her waist and the lips at her throat slipped into a smile. Not when the smile turned to kisses, light and hesitant until they weren’t and Bernadetta let out a groan so far from her squeaks and whines of fear it seemed to have come from somewhere entirely else, some deep chasm of self buried where no one had yet reached, bared to the air at last.

Edelgard leaned back to look up at her, eyes alight with wonder. Bernadetta could not resist their pull, found herself pitching forward to meet her again, and again, and again. All the romance books stuffed beneath her mattress could never have prepared her for this, the way the fire in her heart didn't burn up its fuel, but seemed to create more with every second, the way every movement of her lips, her hands was a new discovery. The joy of inventing love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I didn't trust myself not to write another 50k out of nowhere? Yeah. Hope you enjoyed this 20k long chapter lmao...
> 
> But once again thanks for all your patience during this break between chapters and your support on twitter and in the comments!! It means the absolute world to me that so many people are so invested in this story, I really can't thank you enough.  
> On top a lot of the personal tragedy I've been dealing with this year, I also now have to balance a job, an internship and my last year of my Masters all at once, so while I wish I could promise the next chapter will be up soon, I really can't lol. Even once I graduate in December (holy shit) the pressure will be on to find a full-time job and move out of my dad's house so like!! The ride never ends!!
> 
> If you wanna support me in a means that I am not allowed to mention, visit my [ twitter account ](https://twitter.com/commanderfreddy)and click the link in the bio - but I know it's been a mad year for everyone and I certainly don't write fanfic for any sort of compensation. _Conversation_ , however, is something I definitely write fic for lol, so come chat on the aforementioned twitter or on [my tumblr](https://commanderfreddy.tumblr.com) or [ drop me a question on my curiouscat](https://curiouscat.qa/Freddy) if you're shy.
> 
> Love you guys 🖤


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